y^fjfi^\JFF- 


of  books 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 


THE  HAND  OF  THE 
MIGHTY 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


By 
VAUGHAN  KESTER 

Author  of 

THE  PRODIGAL  JUDGE.   THE  JUST  AND  THE  UNJUST 
THE  FORTUNES  OF  THE  LANDBAYS,  ETC. 


WITH  PORTRAIT,  AND  A  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR 
BY  PAUL  KESTER 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1913 
THE  ROBES-MERRILL  COMPANY 


OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &   CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.    N.    Y. 


Acknowledgments  are  due  to  .Mor/  Stories  t  Munsey"s 
Magazine,  The  Century  Magazine,,  The  Bellman  and 
Tfo  American  Magazine  for  permission  to  reprint  cer 
tain  stones  included  in  this  volume. 


jyI57'8468 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

Vaughan  Kester  was  born  in  New  Brunswick,  New 
Jersey,  but  the  greater  part  of  his  boyhood  was  spent  in 
Mount  Vernon,  Ohio. 

Among  our  earliest  and  most  vivid  recollections  were 
the  long  railway  journeys  which  we  took  with  our  father 
and  mother  back  and  forth  between  our  home  in  the  East 
and  my  grandmother's  house  in  Mount  Vernon.  It  was 
in  Mount  Vernon  that  my  brother  contracted  the  severe 
cold  that  resulted  in  a  hoarseness  of  speech  from  which 
he  never  entirely  recovered,  and  that  finally  developed 
into  the  condition  which  occasioned  his  most  untimely 
death. 

Despite  this  difficulty  of  speech,  his  boyhood  was  a 
very  happy  one.  My  grandmother's  house  was  near  the 
edge  of  the  town  and  we  knew  all  the  short  cuts  to  the 
woods  and  the  river.  We  played  games,  took  long 
tramps,  and  lived  healthy  and  delightful  lives.  We  went 
barefoot,  we  swam  and  played  with  all  the  boys  in  the 
town.  Indeed,  my  brother  was  an  absolute  democrat  all 
his  life. 

We  went  to  a  little  private  school  kept  by  Miss  Plum- 
mer,  a  friend  of  the  family.  Miss  Plummer  had  an 
original  method  of  teaching,  and  expanded  our  minds  and 
won  our  affection,  but  I  doubt  if  we  were  good  students. 
I  know  I  had  great  difficulty  in  learning  to  read,  and 
Vaughan  also  had  his  struggles. 

At  home  our  mother  made  a  practise  of  reading  aloud 
to  us  books  of  all  sorts — ancient  history,  science,  biog 
raphy,  the  Bible — anything  in  which  she  was  interested. 
For  a  long  time  I  think  it  was  the  sound  of  her  voice 
which  held  our  attention,  but  soon  we  followed  with  more 
or  less  comprehension  the  words  we  heard.  This  formed 
a  most  valuable  part  of  our  education. 

We  were  very  fortunate,  too,  in  our  friendships  as 
little  boys.  We  had  charming  friends  who  exercised  a 
lasting  influence  upon  us. 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

When  a  little  older  we  went  to  a  private  school  kept 
by  Mrs.  Charles  Curtis.  Here  again  we  had  the  personal 
care  of  a  woman  of  culture.  Her  instruction  was  indi 
vidual  and  helpful  to  us  both.  Later  we  attended  the 
public  school  for  one  term. 

By  this  time  Vaughan  had  become  a  great  reader.  He 
read  everything  and  forgot  nothing.  All  his  life  he  was 
astonishing  us  by  the  things  he  knew.  At  last  it  came  to 
be  a  commonplace  when  any  one  in  the  family  was  in 
doubt  upon  any  point  in  history  or  general  knowledge,  to 
hear  some  one  say,  "Ask  Vaughan" — and  almost  always 
Vaughan  knew. 

When  Vaughan  was  about  twelve  years  old  our  mother, 
with  her  friend,  Mrs.  Kimball,  and  others,  established  the 
School  of  Design  for  Women — now  the  School  of  Art — 
in  Cleveland,  Ohio — and  for  the  greater  part  of  the  next 
seven  years  we  lived  in  that  city.  The  school  was  estab 
lished  on  original  and  useful  lines,  and  its  rapid  growth 
was  as  interesting  to  Vaughan  and  me  as  it  was  to  Mrs. 
Kimball  and  our  mother. 

Much  of  this  time  was  spent  in  Mrs.  Kimball's  house, 
1265  Euclid  Avenue.  If  we  had  been  at  school  in  Mount 
Vernon,  here  in  Cleveland  was  our  university.  Every 
thing  was  discussed  before  us,  and  we  constantly  visited 
our  mother's  school,  which  soon  grew  to  such  proportions 
that  it  occupied  half  of  the  top  floor  of  the  vast  dingy 
old  City  Hall.  At  that  time  we  attended  a  private  school 
kept  by  Mrs.  Bierce,  and  later  we  had  for  tutor  a  young 
man  to  whom  we  recited  at  Adelbert  College. 

I  think  our  mother  wished  Vaughan  to  enter  Adelbert 
regularly,  but  he  became  at  this  time  possessed  of  a  great 
desire  to  "go  west."  My  uncle  had  recently  purchased  a 
ranch  on  the  River  Platte,  near  Denver,  and  Vaughan 
was  not  content  until  consent  was  given  to  his  trying  the 
life  there. 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

I  did  not  go  west  with  my  brother,  and  only  know  from 
what  he  wrote,  and  from  what  he  told  us  on  his  return, 
that  the  plains  and  mountains  and  the  Denver  of  those 
days  made  a  deep  impression  upon  him.  Looking  back 
now  I  wish  that  he  might  have  spent  a  longer  time  in 
Colorado.  The  West  appealed  to  him  strongly.  He  had 
the  large  elements  of  the  pioneer  in  his  nature,  and  a 
deep  and  peculiar  sympathy  with  the  native  American  in 
any  primitive  condition.  Certain  chapters  in  The  For 
tunes  of  the  Landrays  are  so  vivid  and  so  real  that  one 
knows  how  well  he  used  his  opportunities  for  observation 
and  absorption  in  the  months  he  spent  on  the  ranch  at 
the  foot  of  the  splendid  mountains. 

It  was  while  we  were  living  in  Cleveland  that  my 
brother  first  developed  a  spasmodic  and  not  very  deep 
interest  in  writing.  With  a  friend  he  got  out  an  edition 
of  a  highly  interesting  paper  called  The  Athlete  and 
Quirk,  devoted  almost  wholly  to  prize  fighting.  My 
mother  financed  the  venture.  I  doubt  if  a  copy  remains 
in  existence.  The  enterprise  was  abandoned  not  because 
our  mother's  faith  declined,  but  because  Vaughan  and  his 
fellow  editor  were  too  lazy,  or  too  busy  with  something 
else,  ever  to  get  out  a  second  copy.  I  don't  think 
Vaughan's  contributions  were  of  much  value.  I  know 
he  was  terribly  bored  whenever  we  reminded  him  of 
them. 

By  this  time  I  was  trying  to  write  plays,  but  it  was  not 
for  some  years  that  Vaughan  took  seriously  to  writing. 
When  he  was  nineteen  our  mother  resigned  from  her 
school  and  we  went  to  Florida,  where  we  spent  six 
months  camping  and  cruising  on  the  gulf  coast,  a  delect 
able  time  for  Vaughan,  who  especially  loved  salt  water 
and  boats. 

We  camped  for  many  weeks  on  Sea  Horse  Key  six 
miles  out  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  from  Cedar  Keys.  Here 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

Parsons  Lathrop,  and  had  been  breakfasted  by  our 
mother's  cousin,  William  Dean  Howells,  who  then  and 
thenceforth  showed  us  both  the  utmost  kindness.  I  think 
meeting  Mr.  Howells  had  much  to  do  with  firing  Vaugh- 
an's  ambitions.  From  that  time  on  Mr.  Howells  was  our 
guide,  philosopher  and  friend,  our  sponsor  and  our  sup 
porter.  We  hoarded  our  funny  stories  in  the  hope — gen 
erally  successful,  for  his  good  nature  is  unfailing — of 
making  him  laugh,  and  he  lent  an  equally  willing  ear  to 
all  our  troubles.  Two  young  men  never  had  a  kinder 
friend,  nor  a  wiser.  From  the  first  Mr.  Howells  had  faith 
in  Vaughan,  and  Mrs.  Howells,  whose  rare  discrimination 
we  learned  to  value  so  highly,  and  whose  generous  inter 
est  was  so  unfailing  and  so  helpful,  at  once  saw  qualities 
in  him.  Her  appreciation  of  hkn  was  immediate  and  in 
tuitive.  She  sensed  at  once  not  only  what  he  was,  but 
what  he  might  become,  and  I  think  to  her  he  was  always 
of  the  stature  which  he  was  just  consciously  attaining 
when  he  died. 

During  one  of  Vaughan's  long  visits  to  his  grand 
mother  in  Mount  Vernon,  Ohio,  he  heard  a  vague  report 
that  Dan  Emmett,  the  composer  of  Dixie,  was  living 
north  of  the  town.  He  hunted  up  the  famous  minstrel, 
and  found  him,  nearly  eighty  years  old,  chopping  wood 
for  a  living. 

Mr.  Emmett  had  been  a  man  of  some  means,  and  was 
well  connected,  but  he  had  drifted  away  from  his  people 
and  was  living  a  hermit's  life  in  a  little  house  he  had  built, 
unknown  for  the  most  part  to  his  townspeople. 

This  meeting  with  Emmett  was  important  to  both  my 
brother  and  to  the  old  composer.  They  became  great 
friends,  and  the  result  was  that  Vaughan  wrote  several 
articles  for  the  papers — accounts  of  Emmett's  career  as 
a  composer  and  as  one  of  the  Christy  Minstrels.  Kate 
Field's  Washington  printed  the  first  of  these  articles. 
These  sketches  marked  the  beginning  of  Vaughan's 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

career  as  a  writer.  It  was  his  first  real  appearance  in 
print.  The  money  he  received  for  this  work  he  gave  to 
Mr.  Emmett,  who  had  furnished  him  with  the  facts  the 
articles  embodied. 

I  remember  very  well  how  distressed  Vaughan  was  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  Emmett  when  he  should  return 
to  Virginia. 

He  induced  me  to  write  to  A.  M.  Palmer,  at  that  time 
head  of  the  Actors'  Fund,  stating  Mr.  Emmett's  case  and 
explaining  that  Emmett  was  unwilling  to  make  any  ap 
peal  for  himself.  The  response  was  immediate.  Fifty 
dollars  was  telegraphed  to  my  brother  for  Mr.  Emmett, 
and  a  letter  followed  promising  a  pension  of  five  dollars 
a  week.  This  pension — and  one  was  never  better  de 
served — was  paid  to  the  old  composer  as  long  as  he  lived. 

This  little  success  with  his  pen  inspired  Vaughan  to 
more  serious  effort.  It  was  also  the  direct  means  of  his 
meeting  with  Paul  Wilstach,  who  was  so  long  and  so 
intimately  associated  with  us,  and  whom,  indeed,  we 
came  to  regard  as  one  of  our  family.  Paul  Wilstach  was 
collecting  autographs  at  the  time  Vaughan's  article  on 
Emmett  appeared  in  Kate  Field's  Washington.  He 
wrote,  asking  Vaughan  to  secure  an  autograph  copy  of 
Dixie  for  his  collection.  Vaughan  replied  that  he  would 
obtain  the  autograph  if  Mr.  Wilstach  would  send  him  a 
check  for  five  dollars  for  Mr.  Emmett.  The  check  was 
sent,  a  correspondence  ensued,  and  when  Paul  Wilstach 
came  east  he  visited  us  at  Ben  Venue,  the  house  above 
the  Potomac  in  which  he  now  lives. 

Paul  Wilstach  and  my  brother  wrote  some  farces  to 
gether,  and  aided  each  other  to  keep  alive  their  literary 
enthusiasms.  When  a  little  later  we  were  living  in  the 
big  white  house  on  Riverside  Drive  in  New  York,  Paul 
Wilstach  frequently  made  the  place  his  home. 

Vaughan  was  about  twenty-three  when  we  went  to 
New  York,  settling  ourselves  on  Riverside  Drive  in  The 


VAUGHAN    KESTER 

Big  White  House,  as  the  place  came  to  be  called  by  our 
friends.  Here  my  brother  and  I  wrote  a  two-act  play 
together — The  Cousin  of  the  King — which  was  published 
in  The  Looker-On,  and  afterward  played  by  Walker 
Whiteside.  This  was  the  only  play  in  which  Vaughan 
had  a  hand  that  was  ever  acted.  But  he  was  keenly  inter 
ested  in  the  theater  and  most  sympathetically  and  help 
fully  interested  in  my  various  ventures  as  a  playwright. 

Not  long  after  we  settled  in  New  York  he  wrote  a 
short  story,  The  Mills  of  the  Little  Tin  Gods,  which  Mr. 
Walker  accepted  for  publication  in  the  Cosmopolitan 
magazine.  Mr.  Walker  was  enthusiastic  about  the  story, 
and  sent  for  Vaughan,  who  returned  from  Irvington  with 
an  offer  to  go  on  the  staff  of  the  magazine  and  the  news 
syndicate  which  Mr.  Walker  was  at  that  time  conducting 
in  connection  with  the  Cosmopolitan.  Vaughan  enjoyed 
his  work  at  Irvington.  It  was  a  novel  experience  and  it 
brought  him  into  contact  with  men  of  ability.  He  saw 
a  magazine  in  the  making  and  he  helped  to  make  it.  He 
also  did  a  great  deal  of  hard  work  for  the  syndicate,  and 
he  obtained  special  articles  from  others.  For  a  short 
time  I  joined  my  brother  on  Mr.  Walker's  editorial  staff, 
and  we  would  go  up  to  Irvington  together  for  the  early 
Monday  morning  conferences. 

After  this  there  was  never  any  doubt  as  to  the  career 
my  brother  meant  to  follow.  It  was  while  he  was  asso 
ciated  with  the  Cosmopolitan  that  he  obtained  a  short 
leave  of  absence  from  his  duties  and  returning  to  Mount 
Vernon,  Ohio,  was  married  to  Miss  Jennings.  My 
brother's  wife  was  deeply  interested  in  his  literary  career, 
and  devoted  herself  to  him  and  to  his  work.  His  mar 
riage  was  undoubtedly  an  added  incentive  to  his  ambition 
and  it  was  at  this  time,  or  soon  after,  that  he  began  the 
writing  of  his  first  novel. 

It  was  after  Vaughan  left  the  Cosmopolitan  that  he 
joined  me  in  promoting  a  special  performance  of  Ibsen's 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

Ghosts,  which  our  friend  John  Blair  gave  at  the  Carnegie 
Lyceum.  Charles  Henry  Meltzer  was  the  other  active 
worker  behind  the  scenes.  The  whole  affair  was  so  dis 
tinguished  and  interesting  that  Mr.  Blair  conceived  the 
idea  of  devoting  the  following  winter  to  a  series  of 
modern  plays.  Vaughan  and  I,  with  Mr.  Meltzer,  volun 
teered  our  services,  and  we  were  joined  by  Mr.  George 
Eustis,  who  by  his  generosity  made  a  rather  elaborate 
program  possible.  Performances  of  each  of  the  five  plays 
were  given  in  New  York,  in  Boston,  and  in  Washington. 
The  series  was  brilliantly  successful ;  the  genius  of  Miss 
Florence  Kahn,  now  Mrs.  Max  Beerbohm,  quite  dazzled 
the  critics,  to  Vaughan's  great  delight.  He  gave  all  his 
time,  and  did  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  single  indi 
vidual  to  make  the  season  a  success.  This  was  his  only 
experience  in  actual  theatricals.  He  knew,  however, 
many  noted  actors  and  actresses.  Indeed,  our  house  was 
much  frequented  by  artists  of  all  sorts. 

It  was  through  Mr.  Howells'  influence  that  my  brother 
obtained  a  position  with  Harper  and  Brothers.  I  have  no 
very  definite  knowledge  of  the  work  he  did  for  them,  ex 
cept  that  I  know  he  read  many  manuscripts  during  his 
association  with  this  publishing  house,  and  that  he  met  a 
number  of  men  famous  in  the  literary  world.  I  think  his 
whole  association  with  the  Harpers,  though  it  did  not 
extend  over  many  months,  was  a  pleasant  one  for  him. 
It  culminated  in  their  acceptance  of  his  first  novel,  The 
Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

In  the  spring  of  1900  we  returned  to  Virginia,  taking 
up  our  residence  at  Woodlawn  Mansion,  about  eight 
miles  distant  by  road  from  Gunston  Hall,  and  three  miles 
from  Mount  Vernon.  Woodlawn  was  built  on  what  had 
been  a  part  of  George  Washington's  plantation.  Wash 
ington  himself  drew  the  plans  for  the  house,  and  they 


VAUGHAN    KESTER 

were  afterward  perfected  by  Doctor  William  Thornton, 
the  architect  of  the  Capitol. 

Soon  after  we  had  established  ourselves  again  in  Vir 
ginia,  The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A.  appeared  as  one  of  the 
American  novel  series  the  Harpers  were  then  issuing.  It 
was  very  generously  received  by  the  critics. 

During  the  five  years  we  lived  at  Woodlawn  my 
brother  was  seldom  absent  from  home.  He  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  restoration  of  the  house,  and  even  more 
interested  in  bringing  up  the  worn-out  farm  lands. 

He  had  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  backwoodsman.  He 
was  tall  and  powerful,  standing  six  feet  two  without  his 
shoes.  He  was  very  fond  of  wearing  old,  easy-fitting 
clothes — as  he  was  of  smoking  old  pipes.  His  affection 
for  his  old  hats  was  remarkable.  To  see  him  about  the 
place  tinkering  at  any  odd  job  which  proved  too  much  for 
the  ingenuity  of  others,  delighting  in  saws  and  hammers, 
and  pounding  his  fingers,  fond  of  gardening,  and  all 
the  rough  industries  of  a  large  country  place,  the  last  idea 
a  stranger  would  have  associated  with  him  was  that  of 
authorship. 

Vatighan  found  many  types  at  hand  which  later  offered 
not  a  few  suggestions  for  some  of  the  figures  in  The 
Prodigal  Judge.  Bob  Yancey  in  particular  had  his  proto 
type  in  Kelly  Dove.  Mr.  Dove  and  my  brother  were 
great  cronies,  and  I  remember  when  years  later  he  was 
reading  the  first  chapters  of  The  Prodigal  Judge  to  us  at 
Gunston  Hall,  we  instantly  recognized  Mr.  Dove  in  the 
character  of  Bob  Yancey. 

Farming  the  land  and  restoring  the  house  were  fas 
cinating  and  time-engrossing  occupations,  but  Vaughan 
still  continued  his  writing,  and  it  was  at  Woodlawn  that 
he  wrote  his  second  novel,  The  Fortunes  of  the  Landrays, 
which  the  McClures  published. 

Always  a  most  deliberate  and  unhurried  worker,  he 
grew  even  more  deliberate  and  unhastening  as  time  went 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

on.  He  worked  hard,  but  did  not  work  rapidly.  There 
were  times  when  a  chapter  would  seem  to  write  itself,  but 
I  fancy  he  was  a  little  suspicious  of  easy  composition  so 
far  as  it  concerned  his  own  work. 

He  was  always  at  his  desk  when  not  engaged  in  some 
congenial  outdoor  occupation.  He  wrote  a  great  deal  on 
scraps,  throwing  much  away.  He  seldom  or  never 
crossed  a  "t"  nor  dotted  an  "i".  Often  he  left  great  blank 
spaces  and  half  pages  without  a  line  upon  them,  covering 
others  closely  with  his  fine  writing.  In  their  externals  his 
methods  of  composition  seemed  rather  slovenly,  and  his 
manuscripts  would  have  been  the  despair  of  any  copyist 
but  his  wife ;  but  he  knew  what  he  was  about,  and  it 
was  utterly  useless  to  attempt  any  reformation  in  his 
habits.  He  had  great  patience.  He  did  not  satisfy  him 
self  easily.  He  wrote  and  rewrote  and  polished  and  pol 
ished  again. 

Not  infrequently  he  would  put  aside  his  work  on  a 
novel  to  write  a  short  story.  He  wrote  a  dozen  or  more, 
all  of  which  found  their  way  into  print  except  one,  Mollle 
Darling,  written  not  long  before  his  death,  which  appears 
in  this  volume  for  the  first  time. 

Just  before  the  publication  of  The  Fortunes  of  the 
Landrays,  Woodlawn  Mansion  was  sold  and  I  bought  a 
place  in  the  north  of  England.  In  England  Vaughan  met 
with  an  understanding  a  little  more  complete  than  he 
had  known  in  America,  except  from  Mrs.  Howells.  He 
made  friends  immediately,  and  fitted  into  the  easy  agree 
able  country-house  life  as  perfectly  as  he  had  fitted  into 
the  different  phases  of  American  life  he  had  known.  The 
Fortunes  of  the  Landrays  came  out  while  we  were  at 
Augill  Castle. 

Vaughan's  throat  causing  him  some  concern,  we  went 
to  London,  taking  Lady  Florence  Boyle's  little  house  in 
Victoria  Square,  just  back  of  Buckingham  Palace.  He 
had  begun  a  new  novel  at  Augill  Castle,  but  he  did  little 


VAUGHAN   KESTER 

or  no  writing  in  London.  Later  it  was  thought  best  for 
him  to  return  to  America.  Some  months  were  spent  at 
Ben  Venue  and  then  we  moved  into  Gunston  Hall,  which 
remained  my  brother's  home  until  his  death. 

While  we  were  in  Ben  Venue,  Vaughan  wrote  his  one 
romantic  novel,  John  o'  Jamestozvn.  Contrary  to  his 
usual  custom  he  wrote  this  book  rapidly ;  but  he  compen 
sated  himself  by  taking  more  time  than  was  usual  over 
his  work  on  a  new  novel,  afterward  published  under  the 
title  of  The  Just  and  the  Unjust. 

He  had  almost  completed  this  book  when  he  was  seized 
with  the  idea  which  resulted  in  the  writing  of  his  best 
known  and  most  popular  story,  The  Prodigal  Judge.  He 
had  submitted  the  incomplete  manuscript  of  The  Just  and 
the  Unjust  to  one  or  two  friends,  who  suggested  rewriting 
certain  parts.  For  this  work  at  the  time  he  had  no  in 
clination,  so  put  the  book  aside  and  plunged  into  his  work 
on  The  Prodigal  Judge  with  a  great  deal  of  enthusiasm. 
At  last  he  had  hit  on  a  theme  in  which  he  could  employ 
his  wonderful  sense  of  humor.  His  wit  was  spontane 
ous  ;  but  while  it  was  a  constant  delight  to  those  who 
knew  him  intimately,  he  had  never  regarded  it  as  an 
asset  of  any  value.  I  think  at  the  last  he  began  to  appre 
ciate  that  it  was  his  best  medium,  and  that  with  him  the 
line  of  least  resistance  was  the  safest  and  wisest  to 
follow. 

During  the  three  or  four  years  he  lived  at  Gunston 
Hall,  his  work  was  constantly  interrupted  by  journeys  to 
Washington  for  slight  operations  upon  his  throat.  He 
had  great  singleness  of  purpose  or  he  could  not  have  suc 
cessfully  continued  his  work  in  the  face  of  such  disad 
vantages.  But  there  was  nothing  of  the  invalid  about  my 
brother.  He  diffused  an  atmosphere  of  wholesome 
strength,  good  nature  and  health,  and  until  the  very  last 
weeks  of  his  life  he  maintained  the  attitude  of  a  strong 
well  man. 


VAUGHAN  KESTER 

We  were  confident  that  The  Prodigal  'Judge  would 
meet  a  ready  acceptance  and  would  find  favor  with  the 
public.  My  brother  hoped  so,  too,  but  there  was  sufficient 
doubt  in  his  mind  for  him  to  be  relieved  intensely  by  the 
very  generous  words  in  which  the  publishers  accepted  the 
book. 

The  book  was  well  under  way  and  the  proofs  read, 
when  my  brother's  physicians  decided  that  an  operation 
of  a  somewhat  serious  character  was  necessary.  He  met 
the  ordeal  bravely  and  came  through  it  well.  We  had  a 
pleasant  Christmas  together  at  Gunston  Hall,  and  he  was 
recommencing  work  on  The  Just  and  the  Unjust,  when 
another  very  serious  operation  was  determined  upon. 
Two  weeks  after  the  second  operation  a  third  operation 
was  performed.  My  brother  rallied,  and  in  March  was 
able  to  return  to  Gunston  Hall.  He  had  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  his  book  had  achieved  all  the  success  he 
could  possibly  have  hoped  for  it.  He  died  at  Gunston 
Hall  on  the  night  of  the  fourth  of  July,  1911. 

PAUL  KESTER. 


CONTENTS 


PACK 

I  THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY      .        .                                           1 

II  THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS    .        .        •        .        .        .       24 

III  MOLLIE  DARLING     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .35 

IV  THE  BLOOD  OF  His  ANCESTORS        .        .        ,        .        .75 
V  WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED        .        .        .        .        .        .101 

VI  THE  DESERTER  , .115 

VII  WHAT  REARTON  SAW 123 

VIII  How  MR.  RATHBURN  WAS  BROUGHT  IN  ...  144 

IX  Miss  CAXTON'S  FATHER  .  .  .  .  *  .151 

X  THE  HALF-BREED  .  . 161 

XI  WILLIE 174 

XII  MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT  .  .  .  .  .190 

XIII  ^.LL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH   ...        ^        ...     219 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 


THE  HAND   OF  THE  MIGHTY 

SIMPLE  and  genuine,  that's  the  way  Thomas 
R.  Pendagrast  impressed  the  valley.  You 
really  might  have  felt,  after  listenin'  to  his 
innocent  chatter,  that  he'd  barely  got  under  the 
wire.  He  wasn't  much  to  look  at,  either.  Plain 
in  the  face,  but  comfortable-lookin',  as  if  he  was 
well  fed,  and  with  the  winnin'est  smile  that  ever 
come  into  the  valley.  You'd  never  have  picked 
him  out  of  any  crowd  for  a  millionaire,  he  was 
such  a  simple  soul.  That  was  the  key-note  of  his 
character  as  we  have  read  it.  For  takin'  him  all 
in  all,  I  never  seen  but  one  simpler  soul,  and  that 
was  Silas  Quinby. 

No,  we  never  called  Silas  Si.  That  would  have 
been  too  much  like  intrudin'  on  his  privacy.  You 
see,  you  felt  instinctive  Quinby  couldn't  stand  for 
no  reductions;  that  he  hadn't  anything  to  lose 
without  great  personal  sufferin'.  Silas  lived  at 
the  head  of  the  valley.  His  was  a  white  frame 
house  with  green  blinds  and  a  dornick-bordered 
walk  leadin'  down  to  the  front  gate.  When  you 

1 


2  THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

knew  Silas  and  seen  his  house,  you  realized  he 
was  like  that;  that  if  there'd  been  a  way  to  look 
into  his  soul,  you'd  have  found  it  was  painted 
white,  with  green  blinds,  and  had  a  straight  and 
narrow  path  leadin'  off  to  travel  in. 

We  had  a  heap  more  respect  for  Silas  than 
confidence  in  him.  He  was  a  man  who  looked 
like  he'd  stand  indefinite  without  hitchin'.  He 
was  a  lawyer,  but  he  hadn't  no  practise,  because 
no  one  in  the  valley  had  ever  been  able  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  let  Silas  practise  on  him.  There 
was  some  reckless  characters  here,  just  like  there 
is  in  every  neighborhood,  but  none  of  'em  had 
ever  been  that  reckless.  So  at  the  end  of  forty 
years  Silas  was  still  waitin'  for  his  first  case. 

He  done  better  as  a  notary  public,  which  ain't 
a  perfession  callin'  for  much  independent  judg 
ment.  We  figured  it  that  havin'  been  through 
college  and  the  law  school,  Silas's  natural  parts 
were  sufficiently  improved  so  as  he  could  witness 
an  oath.  But  beyond  this  no  one  had  ever  taken 
chances.  So  he  kept  chickens  by  way  of  helpin' 
out  his  professional  earnin's.  He  was  successful 
at  that.  Even  folks  who  affected  to  sneer  at  him 
for  bein'  such  a  simple  soul  owned  up  that  he  had 
hen  sense.  No,  his  parts  couldn't  have  appeared 
brilliant  on  the  surface  when  you  realize  that  after 
livin'  all  them  years  elbow  to  elbow  with  him,  the 
most  we  could  find  to  say  was  that  he  had  hen 
sense. 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY  3 

Socially  he  was  of  them  poor  unfortunates  that 
never  gets  a  chance  to  finish  anything  they  start 
to  say.  About  the  time  folks  was  willin'  to  listen 
to  him  somebody  changed  the  subject.  He  was 
always  bein'  broke  off  in  the  middle  and  serialized. 
It  was  as  if  some  one  got  nervous  waitin',  and 
turned  the  page. 

From  what  I  am  sayin'  you  may  gather  that 
Silas  was  at  the  tail-end  of  the  procession.  But 
that  was  hardly  it.  He  was  more  like  a  man 
who'd  missed  the  procession  entirely.  But  he 
was  a  simple  soul  all  right,  and  he  never  bore 
malice  with  folks  for  bein'  short  with  him  or 
showin'  plain  that  they  didn't  care  a  cuss  for  what 
he  thought. 

But  to  go  back  to  Thomas  R.  Pendagrast.  He 
come  into  the  valley  in  a  great,  big,  yellow  tourin'- 
car  along  late  one  afternoon  in  dog-days.  It  was 
me  seen  him  first.  His  car  was  standin'  in  the 
road,  and  he  seemed  to  be  examinin'  a  daisy  he 
had  in  his  hand.  None  of  your  ox-eyes,  but  just 
one  of  those  ornery  white-and-yellow  kind  same 
as  are  such  a  pest. 

"Ain't  it  wonderful — the  white  and  the  deep, 
deep  yellow,  like  gold?"  he  says,  smilin'  at  me 
kind  of  shy.  "Do  you  think  any  artist  could  paint 
such  a  golden  yellow?"  he  says.  "I  don't." 

"I  wish  they  didn't  seed  so  powerful  energetic," 
I  says. 

"But  who  made  'em?"  he  asks,  smilin'  quaint. 


4  THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Blamed  if  I  know.  Burbank  didn't;  he's  got 
better  sense." 

"Yes,  you  know,"  he  says,  sinkin'  his  voice  and 
smilin'  awful  sweet. 

"I  know  they  run  out  a  mowin'  meadow  mighty 
quick,"  I  says.  "If  anybody  made  'em,  I  wish  to 
blazes  they'd  been  about  something  useful  in 
stead." 

"My  friend,"  he  says,  lookin'  pained,  "don't  say 
that.  God  made  'em;  they  are  His  flowers.  Are 
you  a  church-member?" 

"I'm  a  deacon  at  the  Fork's  Meetin'-house," 
I  says. 

"My  brother!"  he  says  gentle-like,  and  smilin' 
winnin*  and  friendly. 

"Here's  another  simple  soul,"  I  thought  as  we 
shook  hands,  "another  soft  pedal  like  Silas  Quin- 
by,  dotty  and  rockin'  on  his  base,  but  well-meanin' 
and  harmless." 

But  I  misjudged  him.  You  see,  he  lived  his 
religion;  that  was  it — it  was  a  part  of  his  every 
day  life.  Most  folks  go  about  hidin'  their  religion 
as  if  it  was  a  private  matter;  but  that  wasn't 
Thomas  R.  Pendagrast's  style.  He  was  willin' 
you  should  know  just  how  good  he  was. 

Just  then  one  of  the  men  in  the  car  spoke  his 
name.  Say,  you  could  have  knocked  me  down 
with  the  daisy  in  his  hand,  I  was  that  outdone ! 
But  I  knew  it  was  him  from  havin'  seen  his  pic 
ture  so  often  in  the  papers.  Well,  he  climbed 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY  5 

back  into  his  car  after  we'd  shook  hands  again, 
and  I  took  off  acrost  the  fields  as  hard  as  I  could 
run.  I  beat  the  car  down  to  the  valley  and  spread 
the  news  that  Pendagrast,  the  millionaire,  was 
comin',  that  I'd  seen  him  and  shook  hands  with 
him. 

At  first  folks  didn't  believe  me,  but  when  his 
big  yellow  car  rolled  in  slow  over  the  Fork's  road, 
— the  first  one  that  had  been  seen  in  the  valley, — 
people  realized  that  we  had  uncommon  visitors 
with  us.  And  later  there  was  his  name  on  the 
hotel  register,  good  for  no  tellin'  how  many  mil 
lions.  Folks  came  and  looked  at  it,  silent  and 
awed,  and  then  walked  away  on  tiptoe. 

One  of  the  gentlemen  of  Pendagrast's  party 
gave  out  a  statement  that  the  financier  was  seekin' 
rest  and  quiet.  No  wonder,  after  the  way  he  must 
'a'  been  workin'  to  pile  up  all  the  money  he  had. 
The  gentleman  said,  too,  in  private  conversation 
with  several  of  us  that  Mr.  Pendagrast  was  a 
much  misunderstood  man,  that  his  aims  and  pur 
poses  were  bein'  constantly  misrepresented  by  his 
enemies.  He  said  he  was  merely  one  of  them 
Christian  business  men  in  whose  hands  an  all- 
seein'  Providence  had  seen  fit  to  place  the  tem 
poral  welfare  of  our  country.  What  you  noticed 
at  once  about  Pendagrast  and  his  friends  was  the 
religious  tone  of  all  their  remarks;  yet  they  were 
cheerful — cheerful  without  bein'  vulgar. 

Right  from  the  first  Pendagrast  liked  the  val- 


6  THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ley;  and  when  he  seen  we  kep'  out  of  his  way 
and  didn't  try  to  intrude  on  him,  he  got  awful 
friendly,  and  to  such  an  extent  that  he'd  stop  and 
speak  to  any  man  he  met  on  the  road.  He'd  ask 
him  his  name  most  likely,  how  many  acres  he 
farmed,  if  he  was  married,  and  how  many  chil 
dren,  and  was  he  a  church-member.  You  could 
see  he  was  all  balm  and  oil  and  gentleness  and 
thoughtfulness.  He  appeared  to  overflow  with 
the  milk  of  human  kindness.  He  was  as  sweet 
as  a  cat  with  sirup  on  its  paws,  always  soundin' 
the  soft  note  in  his  talk,  and  always  moral  and 
improvin'. 

Well,  sir,  his  friends  just  seemed  to  love  him. 
It  was  beautiful  to  watch  the  way  they  sort  of 
hung  on  his  words.  And  when  he  told  a  funny 
joke,  you  could  see  them  fix  their  faces,  and  then 
they'd  laugh  and  laugh,  and  slap  each  other  on 
the  back. 

It  wasn't  no  time  at  all  until  we  knew  he  was 
just  such  another  simple  soul  as  Silas  Quinby. 
He  was  simple  in  his  pleasures,  in  what  he  et, 
and  in  his  thoughts,  like  Silas  was.  Folks  com 
mented  on  this.  But  while  Pendagrast  got  a 
chance  to  finish  all  his  remarks,  poor  old  Silas 
had  never  been  trusted  with  much  beside  the 
weather,  and  even  there  he  had  to  be  mighty 
careful  not  to  overstay  his  time. 

But  the  most  astonishin'  thing  was  the  way 
Silas  Quinby  and  Pendagrast  became  friends.  It 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

was  like  two  streams  of  molasses  flowin'  together 
and  makin'  one  sweetness.  It  was  because  they 
was  both  such  simple  souls,  you  see.  I  doubt  if 
Pendagrast  had  ever  met  any  one  like  Silas, 
which  was  sayin'  just  like  himself. 

He  said  Silas  was  the  most  genuine  man  he 
had  ever  met  with,  and  that  some  day  he  must 
come  and  visit  him  at  his  city  home.  He  spent 
hours  with  Silas  lookin'  over  the  chickens  or 
drinkin'  buttermilk  and  eatin'  doughnuts  Mrs. 
Quinby  fed  'em  at  the  back  door  like  two  happy 
lads. 

You  bet  it  made  us  feel  good.  There  was  the 
master  of  millions  and  our  Silas  like  brothers. 
Why,  we  began  to  talk  of  runnin'  Silas  for  justice 
of  the  peace.  He'd  wanted  the  office  for  years, 
but  no  one  had  felt  he'd  care  to  have  a  case  tried 
before  Silas.  Not  that  he  was  not  well  meanin'. 
No;  it  was  his  mind  we  feared,  not  his  heart. 

Then  Pendagrast  and  his  friends  must  see  the 
p'ints  of  interest  about  the  valley.  Silas  was  their 
guide.  No  one  knew  the  country  better  than  he 
did,  whose  land  they  was  on,  and  all  about  the 
folks  that  owned  it.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  those 
two  simple  souls  goin'  around  gatherin'  flowers 
or  pickin'  up  curious  rocks  and  pebbles.  You 
see,  they  was  both  so  genuine  anything  that  was 
innocent  could  charm  'em.  They'd  come  home 
to  the  hotel,  their  arms  bulgin'  with  wild  blooms 
and  half  a  hundred  of  broken  rock  mebby  stowed 


8  THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

away  under  their  feet  in  the  car.  I  never  knew 
a  millionaire's  pleasures  'Could  be  so  harmless  or 
so  inexpensive. 

Nights  Silas  used  to  fetch  him  down  to  Miller 
Brothers'  store  so  he  could  get  acquainted  with 
folks.  Sociable?  The  most  sociable  man  I  ever 
met  with.  Mebby  he'd  borrow  five  cents  off  one 
of  his  friends  and  lay  it  all  out  in  crackers  and 
cheese;  then  he'd  set  on  the  counter  and  dangle 
his  legs  and  talk  and  munch  and  munch  and  talk. 
He  never  seemed  to  carry  no  money.  I  suppose, 
havin'  so  many  millions,  he  didn't  want  to  appear 
ostentatious;  and  when  he'd  ask  for  the  nickel 
his  friends  would  laugh  and  laugh;  and  it  was 
comical,  him  having  to  borrow  five  cents  like  that. 
Once  he  brought  some  picture-cards  down  to  the 
store  he'd  had  taken  the  year  before  when  he  was 
in  the  Holy  Land.  There  was  views  of  him  at 
the  Tomb,  him  on  the  shores  of  Galilee,  him  at 
the  Mount  of  Olives,  but  no  olives. 

The  first  Sunday  he  spent  in  the  valley  he  at 
tended  church  right  there  in  the  old  Fork's  Meetin'- 
house,  and  after  the  service  the  minister  asked 
him  if  he  wouldn't  favor  us  with  a  few  remarks. 
Say,  I  ain't  ever  forgot  that  meetin'.  What  do 
you  think  that  simple  soul  done?  He  got  up, 
his  eyes  shinin'  and  tears  in  his  voice  like  he  was 
gettin'  ready  to  leak,  and  told  us  about  his  early 
struggles. 

Joe  Whittaker  said  afterward  he  hadn't  known 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY  9 

whether  he  was  attendin'  divine  service  or  night 
session  of  a  business  college.  As  we  left  the 
church,  I  says  to  Joe: 

"How  you  can  bring  yourself  to  criticize  a 
simple  soul  like  that  is  more  than  I  can  under 
stand." 

"All  the  same,"  says  Joe,  "he's  got  God  and 
mammon  confused  in  his  mind.  Savin's  and  salva 
tion  are  pretty  much  one  and  the  same  to  him. 
I  don't  want  to  be  told  how  to  make  twenty-five 
dollars  to  start  on, — I  know  that  much, — but  I'd 
be  grateful  if  the  old  man  had  told  me  how  to 
make  a  million  or  two." 

"Well,  he  deserves  a  lot  of  credit,"  I  says. 

"What  for?"  asks  Joe. 

"For  bein'  successful  and  sacrificin'  himself  to 
make  money,"  I  says,  heated. 

"Do  you  respect  a  hog  for  taking  on  fat?"  says 
Joe. 

"No,  I  don't,"  I  says.  "That's  a  hog's  nature, 
to  take  on  fat." 

"Well,  it's  his  nature  to  make  money,"  says 
Joe.  "He  ain't  never  gone  outside  of  his  natural 
instincts.  But  where  you  and  me  has  got  various 
instincts,  like  bein'  careless  in  our  spendin'  and 
lazy,  he's  never  been  able  to  let  go  a  dollar  once 
he's  got  his  hands  on  it.  I  bet  you  the  Indian 
yells  with  pain  when  his  fingers  touch  a  penny." 

Well,  Pendagrast  stayed  ten  days  in  the  valley, 
and  then  he  went  away,  promisin'  to  come  back 


10          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

the  first  chance  he  got.  When  he  left  it  was  just 
like  the  sun  had  gone  down  for  good.  We'd  been 
thinkin'  in  the  hundred  millions,  dreamin'  of  mo 
tor-cars  and  steam-yachts,  and  we  was  suddenly 
dumped  back  on  the  Miller  brothers,  our  richest 
family,  who  mebby  made  two  thousand  dollars 
a  year  sellin'  groceries  and  calicoes,  and  specu- 
latin'  in  hoop-poles  and  shingles. 

The  night  after  the  big  yellow  tourin'-car  had 
gone  hootin'  good-by  down  the  valley  road,  Silas 
Quinby  come  to  see  me.  I  seen  he  had  something 
on  his  mind.  Finally  he  got  me  out  to  the  wood 
pile.  When  a  man  had  something  very  private  to 
say  to  his  neighbor,  he  always  got  him  out  to  the 
wood-pile.  It  was  an  old  valley  custom. 

"You're  missin'  him,  Silas?"  I  says,  meanin' 
Pendagrast. 

"Yes,"  says  Silas,  sighin',  "a  wonderful  man, 
simple  and  genuine,  and  all  his  goodness  on  the 
surface,  where  it  counts,"  he  says.  "And  yet  I 
don't  know  as  it's  so  much  on  the  surface  as 
underneath,"  he  adds. 

"It's  all  around,"  I  says. 

"And  yet  he's  a  terribly  misjudged  man.  Have 
you  read  them  awful  libelous  attacks  on  his  char 
acter  in  the  magazines  and  newspapers?  It  makes 
my  heart  bleed  for  him,"  says  Silas,  moved. 

Then  Silas  asked  me  about  some  wild  land  I 
owned.  He  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  ever  thought 
of  sellin'  it.  I'd  been  tryin'  to  sell  it  for  thirty 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY          1 1 

years,  but  couldn't.  There  was  six  hundred  acres 
all  told,  mostly  broke  rock  and  scrub-timber.  I'd 
been  offerin'  it  for  two-fifty  an  acre. 

"Yes,"  I  says.  "I'll  sell  fast  enough  if  I  get 
the  chance." 

"Well,  I've  had  inquiries,"  says  Silas. 

You  see,  he  was  a  real-estate  agent,  though 
he'd  never  sold  any  land.  But  it's  easy  to  be  a 
real-estate  agent.  You  can  start  with  a  sign. 
And  Silas  had  started  twenty  years  before. 

"I  wish  you'd  put  your  land  in  my  hands  to 
sell,"  he  kept  on.  "All  I  want  is  a  ten  per  cent, 
commission  if  I  make  a  sale.  But  you  must  give 
me  a  year's  time." 

"Why,"  I  says,  "that's  an  awful  long  time  to 
take,  Silas." 

"Well,"  he  says,  "you've  taken  thirty  years,  ain't 
you,  George?  And  your  lowest  price  is  two-fifty?" 

"That's  my  askin'  price.  I'll  accept  two,"  I 
says. 

"Or  as  much  more  as  you  can  get?"  he  says, 
laughin*  in  his  simple  way. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Silas.  If  you  got  anybody 
feeble-minded  enough  to  think  he  can  farm  that 
land,  don't  you  try  to  dicker  with  him,"  I  says 
getting  anxious. 

The  upshot  of  it  was  I  signed  a  paper  giving 
Silas  a  sort  of  option,  him  to  be  exclusive  agent 
for  one  year.  Then  he  handed  me  a  dollar. 

"What's  this  for,  Silas?"  I  asked. 


12          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"Why,  to  bind  the  bargain,"  he  says,  smilin' 
at  me  simple. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,  Silas;  I  trust  you,"  I 
says,  humorin'  his  fancy. 

He  made  me  promise  I'd  not  tell  a  soul  about 
the  option.  But  that  was  reasonable,  because  if 
anybody  in  the  valley  could  have  got  hold  of  his 
buyer,  first  thing  they  would  have  done  would 
have  been  to  tell  him  he'd  starve  to  death  on  that 
land,  that  it  was  so  thin  a  turkey-buzzard  didn't 
make  a  shadow  flyin'  over  it.  Yes,  it  was  some 
poor  as  far  as  fertility  went. 

Of  course  I  kept  still,  but  one  night  as  I  was 
walkin'  home  from  the  store  with  the  youngest  of 
the  Miller  brothers, — we  married  sisters, — it  sort 
of  come  out  that  Silas  had  been  to  him  about 
land,  and  they'd  give  him  an  option  on  two  thou 
sand  acres  of  cut-over  mountainside. 

"We'll  watch  Silas,"  I  said.  "He's  losin'  his 
mind." 

"Well,  it  ain't  much  to  lose,"  says  Miller.  "He's 
got  nothing  he'll  be  less  likely  to  miss." 

"Yes,  but  he's  such  a  simple  soul,"  I  says.  "I 
don't  know  but  we'd  ought  to  make  up  a  purse 
and  send  him  off  to  see  a  brain  specialist.  It's 
a  mania  he's  sufferin'  from,  for  no  man  in  his 
health  would  ever  think  he  could  sell  twenty-six 
hundred  acres  of  this  cut-over  land,"  I  says,  ap 
palled  at  the  extent  of  Silas's  hallucination. 

"We  must  watch  him,"  says  Miller.     "He  may 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY          13 

turn  violent  any  moment.  These  manias  grow 
on  a  man  until  he  ain't  any  control  over  himself. 
We  must  watch  out  for  Silas,"  he  says. 

The  next  day  Miller  took  me  aside  and  told  me 
that  Joe  Whittaker  had  told  him  in  confidence 
that  Silas  had  got  an  option  out  of  him  for  his 
farm. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  says  Miller.  "He's 
mad,  stark  starin'  mad." 

"That's  it,  Miller;  his  poor  simple  nature  has 
give  way  at  last.  Associating  with  multi-million 
aire's  was  too  much  for  him.  I  knew  his  brain 
was  thin  in  spots,  and  it's  let  him  through  at  last. 
That's  over  three  thousand  acres  he's  goin'  to 
sell — more  land  than's  changed  hands  in  the  valley 
in  eighty  years." 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  ought  to  get  him  com 
mitted  to  an  asylum  right  off,  and  not  wait?" 
says  Miller,  anxious.  "I  got  a  house  full  of  chil 
dren,  and  he's  my  nearest  neighbor.  I've  had 
new  strong  locks  put  on  my  doors  and  windows, 
and  I've  told  my  wife  if  she  ever  hears  Silas 
give  a  whoop,  not  to  wait  for  nothin',  but  to  go 
inside  and  lock  all  the  doors." 

Well,  we  kept  on  investigatin'  Silas,  and  we  got 
on  the  track  of  something  like  fifty  thousand  acres 
of  mountain  land  he  was  holdin'  on  option!  When 
me  and  Miller  footed  it  up,  Miller  turned  white 
as  a  sheet,  and  I  felt  sick  all  over. 

"Poor,  poor  Silas!"  I  says. 


14          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"Fifty  thousand  acres — think  of  that!"  gasps 
Miller.  "Why,  you  couldn't  give  it  away  in  an 
ordinary  lifetime.  There's  never  been  any  one 
crazier  than  him,  and  here  he  is  walkin'  the  roads 
without  a  keeper!  It's  awful!"  The  sweat  was 
pourin'  off  Miller's  face.  "George,"  he  says,  "with 
a  madman  like  him,  even  a  strong  fellow  like 
you  wouldn't  be  safe.  They  have  awful  unnatural 
strength,  these  maniacs.  Why,  you'd  be  a  child  in 
his  hands.  I  bet  there  ain't  no  twenty  men  in 
the  valley  could  handle  him,  thin  and  peaked  as 
he  looks.  George,  it's  awful;  we're  living  over  a 
slumberin'  volcano." 

"Poor  Silas!"  I  says.  "His  mind's  diseased, 
all  right." 

But  we  could  see  plain  that  Silas  had  all  that 
terrible  cunnin'  the  mad  has.  He  talked  just  as 
rational  and  simple  like  he'd  always  done.  He 
seemed  still  to  have  plenty  of  hen  sense,  which 
was  the  only  kind  of  sense  we'd  ever  credited  him 
with  havin'.  Yet  me  and  Miller  was  like  men 
setting  over  the  crater  of  a  volcano, — if  that's 
where  you  set, — which  we  was  expectin'  any  mo 
ment  to  bust  wide  open. 

Then  one  day  a  stranger  drove  into  the  valley. 
He  was  a  lightnin'-rodder,  and  he  came  to  me  to 
talk  rods.  I  was  cold  on  the  proposition,  but  he 
was  a  clever  sociable  chap,  and  one  thing  led  to 
another,  and  before  long  he  says. 

"You've  got  a  lovely  valley;  what's  land  worth 
here?" 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY  15 

I  told  him  all  the  way  from  two  an  acre  for 
stumpage  up  to  thirty  for  the  best  valley  farms. 
He  seemed  to  think  them  figures  mighty  reason 
able,  for  he  asked  me  if  I  had  any  broke  land 
that  'u'd  do  to  clear  for  sheep.  The  upshot  of 
it  was  that  I  told  him  about  that  six  hundred 
acres  I'd  been  tryln'  to  sell  for  such  a  time,  and 
he  made  me  an  offer  of  two  an  acre  cash  out  of 
hand.  I  wanted  to  kick  myself,  for  I  remembered 
that  fool  option  I'd  give  Silas. 

"Wait,"  said  Silas,  when  I'd  hunted  him  up  and 
explained  matters.  "Don't  be  too  hasty." 

"Hasty!  I  can't  be  half  quick  enough.  I  want 
you  to  tear  up  that  blame  paper,  and  let  me  sell 
my  land  now  I  got  the  chance,  Silas." 

He  wouldn't  do  it.  He  said  that  wasn't  enough 
for  the  land,  and  that  I  mustn't  think  of  sellin', 
for  he  wouldn't  agree  to  it.  Stubborn?  I  never 
knew  he  could  be  so  downright  mulish.  Argu 
ment  and  entreaty  didn't  budge  him. 

That  same  night  down  to  the  store  Miller  took 
me  aside.  It  seems  the  lightnin'-rod  man  had 
been  soundin'  him.  It  really  appeared  he  was 
more  anxious  to  buy  land  than  he  was  to  sell 
rods.  He'd  made  Miller  the  same  offer  he'd  made 
me,  and  Miller  was  crazy  to  sell.  He  said  he 
never  expected  to  get  so  good  an  offer  again,  but 
that  fool  paper  of  Silas's  stood  in  the  way,  and 
he  couldn't  do  a  thing  with  Silas. 

"If  I  only  hadn't  taken  his  blame  dollar,  I'd 
tell  him  to  whistle!"  said  Miller,  groanin*. 


16          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Did  that  simple  cuss  give  you  a  dollar,  too?" 
I  says. 

"Simple?  Why,  George,  his  option  is  almost 
as  good  as  a  deed.  It's  a  contract  for  sale,  him 
to  fix  the  price  at  any  figure  he  chooses  to  name 
above  two  an  acre.  WVve  accepted  a  considera 
tion.  I  ain't  sure  he's  so  simple,  after  all." 

"What  can  we  do,  Miller?"  I  asked. 

"There's  only  one  thing,  George,  that  I  know 
of,"  says  Miller.  "We  must  get  him  adjudged 
insane,  and  recover  them  options  that  way;  and 
we  mustn't  lose  no  time  about  it,  either,  or  that 
sucker  will  buy  other  land." 

It  looked  like  what  Miller  feared  would  hap 
pen,  for  when  the  lightnin'-rod  man  found  he 
couldn't  do  business  with  me  or  Miller,  he  went 
to  Whittaker.  Naturally  Whittaker  was  wild  to 
sell,  but  he  was  up  against  Silas. 

The  lightnin'-rodder  was  a  sport,  all  right.  He 
said  he'd  always  counted  it  a  fair  test  of  a  man's 
ability  to  sell  rods,  but  he  was  findin'  there  was 
stifTer  business  propositions,  and  he  couldn't  afford 
to  let  no  transaction  get  the  better  of  him.  He 
was  goin*  to  squat  right  there  and  buy  his  sheep 
farm  if  it  took  all  summer.  You  see  he  had  his 
nerve  with  him. 

And  through  all  them  days  of  stress,  when  it 
looked  like  his  neighbors  might  mob  him  any 
minute,  Silas  preserved  the  even  tenor  of  his 
way,  like  the  fellow  says,  mindin*  his  chickens, 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY          17 

and  goin'  around  serene  and  ca'm,  at  perfect  peace 
with  the  world. 

But  of  course  things  couldn't  go  on  like  that 
long.  Something  had  to  be  done.  It  was  Miller 
thought  of  what  he  had  ought  to  do — Miller  and 
his  lightnin'-rod  man.  They  got  up  a  petition  and 
sent  it  to  Pendagrast.  They  reminded  him  how 
friendly  he'd  be'n  with  Silas,  and  urged  him  to 
join  us  in  sendin'  our  poor  friend  to  a  private 
asylum  for  the  insane,  where  he  could  have  the 
medical  attention  he  was  requirin'  so  much,  and 
be  restored  to  such  hen  sense  as  the  Creator  had 
endowed  him  with  in  the  beginnin'. 

It  showed  what  a  simple  genuine  soul  Penda 
grast  was  when  inside  of  a  week  his  big  yellow 
car  came  scootin'  into  the  valley  and  drawed  ug 
in  front  of  Miller  Brothers'  store. 

"Where's  my  poor  friend?"  he  says,  after  we 
had  shook  hands  all  round.  "Yes,"  he  says, 
wipin'  his  eyes,  "it's  best  I  should  take  him  where 
he  can  be  confined  and  have  medical  attention." 

We  sent  for  Silas.  Say,  it  was  touchin'  to  see 
them  two  meet  and  clasp  hands,  each  lookin'  in- 
nocenter  and  simpler  than  the  other,  and  like 
butter  would  keep  indefinite  in  their  mouths. 

"Are  you  well,  Silas?"  asks  Pendagrast,  with 
his  arm  thrown  acrost  Silas's  shoulder.  "And 
how's  Mrs.  Quinby  and  her  good  doughnuts?" 
smacking  his  lips.  "And  the  chickens,  and  your 
vegetable  garden — all  doin'  nicely,  I  hope.  Well, 


18          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  leave  these 
simple  joys  for  a  spell;  I  want  you  should  visit 
me  in  my  city  home.  I've  come  to  fetch  you 
away."  And  he  winks  at  Miller. 

They'd  arranged  the  doctors  was  to  be  intro 
duced  to  Silas  there  without  his  knowin'  who 
they  was,  so  as  he  wouldn't  be  on  his  guard. 
You  see  we  hadn't  been  able  to  do  nothing  with 
old  Doctor  Smith,  the  valley  physician;  he  said 
Silas  had  just  as  many  brains  as  he  ever  had, 
and  a  heap  more  than  the  folks  who  had  put  their 
land  in  his  hands  to  sell. 

But  Silas  said  he  couldn't  leave  home.  He  was 
awful  firm  about  stayin'  just  where  he  was.  He 
couldn't  think  of  moving. 

"It's  that  dreadful  cunnin'  insane  folks  have," 
whispers  Miller  to  me.  "He's  suspicious  of  his 
best  friend." 

It  was  just  beautiful  the  way  Pendagrast  talked 
with  Silas,  humorin'  him  like  a  little  child,  pleadin' 
with  him  to  visit  him  in  his  city  home,  where 
there'd  be  prayer-meetin'  every  Thursday  night  and 
two  regular  services  on  Sunday.  He  held  out 
every  inducement  he  could  think  of,  but  Silas  was 
as  firm  as  he  was  gentle.  It  was  plain  he  was  set 
against  leavin'  the  valley.  Presently  Pendagrast 
took  him  by  the  arm  and  says: 

"Gentlemen,  I  must  go  down  and  pay  my  re 
spects  to  Mrs.  Quinby,  and  beg  one  of  those  nice 
doughnuts  off'n  her.  Me  and  my  friend  will  return 
soon,  I  hope,  to  say  that  he  has  reconsidered  his 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY          19 

decision,  and  will  go  with  me  to  pay  me  the  visit 
I  want  him  to."  And  they  locked  arms  and 
walked  off,  two  as  simple-souled  men  as  you'd 
wish  to  see. 

We  owe  it  to  Mrs.  Qtiinby  for  a  knowledge  of 
what  happened  down  to  Silas's.  She  listened  at 
the  keyhole  after  she'd  fed  Pendagrast  a  plate  of 
doughnuts  and  some  buttermilk. 

"You're  actin'  very  wrong,  Silas,  to  keep  them 
folks  from  sellin'  their  land  when  they  got  the 
chance,"  Pendagrast  says,  after  a  little  friendly 
talk.  "Yes,  Mr.  Miller's  told  me  all  about  it. 
They  are  thinkin'  of  havin'  you  locked  up  in  an 
asylum  somewheres,  and  you'd  better  destroy 
them  papers.  I  doubt  if  they  are  legal — " 

"They're  legal,"  says  Silas,  smilin'  his  sweetest. 
"I'd  stake  my  life  on  that." 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  them  poor  fellows 
and  their  bitter  disappointment?"  says  Penda 
grast,  his  voice  tremblin'.  "Have  you  put  your 
self  in  their  place,  my  friend?  Have  you  applied 
that  great  moral  test  to  the  situation?  Before 
we  go  any  further,  would  you  like  to  kneel  down 
beside  me  and  say  your  prayers?"  he  says.  "I 
know  the  temptations  of  greed,  that  money's  the 
root  of  all  evil.  It  can  do  no  hurt/'  he  urged  in 
that  gentle  wiiiiiin'  voice  of  his. 

And  Mrs.  Quinby,  beyond  the  door,  covered  her 
head  with  her  apron,  she  was  that  moved  by  the 
simple  soul's  eloquence.  She  missed  Silas's  an 
swer,  but  she  heard  Pendagrast  go  on. 


20          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  tremble  for  your  safety  here,  Silas — even 
your  temporal  safety,  my  friend.  Every  man  in 
the  valley's  got  land  to  sell,  and  now  it  looks  like 
their  opportunity  has  come,  and  you're  blockin' 
the  deal.  It's  cruel  of  you,  Silas,"  he  says.  "And 
they're  a  rough  lot — rough,  but  gentle,  and  they 
may  do  you  bodily  harm,  like  tarrin'  and  feath- 
erin'  you  without  meanin'  to.  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  that,  Silas;  it  hurts  me  here,"  he  said, 
restin'  his  hand  on  his  wish-bone.  "And  you 
can't  pray,  my  friend.  It's  a  bad  sign,  Silas,  when 
a  man  loses  the  power  to  pray;  it  shows  he's 
walked  afar  with  false  gods,"  he  says. 

"They  don't  know  what's  best  for  them,"  says 
Silas.  "I  got  a  buyer  for  their  land.  It'll  be 
sold  in  good  time — " 

"What !"  gasps  Pendagrast,  turnin'  white. 

"I  say  I've  found  a  purchaser  for  their  land." 

"Who,    Silas?"    says    Pendagrast. 

And  Mrs.  Quinby,  watchin'  through  the  key 
hole,  seen  that  he  spoke  with  effort. 

"It's  a  group  of  capitalists  in  New  York.  All 
I  got  to  do  is  to  wire  'em,  and  their  representative 
will  be  here  on  the  first  train  to  close  the  deal," 
says  Silas. 

There  was  a  silence,  then  Pendagrast  says: 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  of  your  havin' 
this  land  to  sell,  my  friend?  Suppose  we  form 
a  partnership,  Silas.  We'll  close  your  options 
out  at  once  at  two  an  acre,  and  I'll  personally 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY          21 

guarantee  you  your  commission,  which  I  under 
stand  is  ten  per  cent.  That'll  be  ten  thousand 
dollars  for  you." 

"No,"  says  Silas,  "I  must  do  better  than  two 
dollars  an  acre.  These  folks  are  my  neighbors. 
I  want  to  do  the  best  I  can  by  them." 

"YouVe  wrong  there,  Silas,"  says  Pendagrast. 
"Business  is  different  from  most  other  things,  and 
it's  a  good  rule  to  think  of  yourself  first." 

"Mebby  so,"  says  Silas;  "but  it's  foolish  any 
way  you  look  at  it  to  sell  the  best  coal  land  in 
the  state  for  two  an  acre.  And  when  you  get 
your  railroad  built  along  the  line  of  that  old  sur 
vey  that  was  made  twenty  years  ago,  you'll  need 
the  gap  on  the  Whittaker  place,  or  you  can't 
get  your  line  acrost  the  mountains  without  goin' 
clean  around,"  he  says. 

Mrs.  Quinby  said  Pendagrast  pretty  near  fell 
off  his  chair,  hearin'  this,  he  was  that  outdone. 
Presently  he  commands  himself  so  as  he  could 
speak,  and  says,  sighin'  deep : 

"I  see  it's  as  Mr.  Miller  said  it  was,  and  as  I 
feared,  but  hoped  it  was  not.  There  ain't  no  rail 
road,  and  I  never  heard  of  no  old  survey — nor 
coal,"  he  says.  "My  poor  friend,  I  would  gladly 
have  stood  between  you  and  your  neighbors,  but 
I  see  now  the  law  will  have  to  deal  with  you, 
and  the  sooner  the  better,  so  these  poor  folks 
can  sell  their  land  and  get  their  money." 

"What  law?"  says  Silas. 


22          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"A   lunacy   commission,"    says    Pendagrast. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  says  Silas.  "Do  you  remember 
that  roll  of  papers  you  lost  on  the  mountain? 
Well,  I  found  it.  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  it  con 
tained  your  plans  and  a  copy  of  the  old  survey, 
as  well  as  the  location  of  the  coal  that  your  engi 
neers,  who  come  here  two  years  ago  trout-fishin', 
had  checked  up  for  you." 

"Quinby,"  says  Pendagrast, — he  was  dealin' 
now, — "I'll  take  them  options  off  your  hands  and 
give  you  a  bonus  of  fifty  thousand  dollars;  but 
you  must  agree  to  keep  still  until  after  I've  dealt 
with  these  folks — " 

"No,"  says  Silas;  "I'm  askin'  two  hundred  an 
acre  for  the  land." 

Pendagrast  groaned. 

"Two  hundred!  Why,  that's  what  it's  worth!" 
he  says  in  a  shocked  tone. 

"Of  course,"  says  Silas.  "That's  what  I  want 
to  get  for  these  folks — all  their  land's  worth." 

"But  that  ain't  business,"  urges  Pendagrast, 
almost  moved  to  tears.  "Silas,  my  friend — "  he 
began,  conjurin'  back  that  old  winnin'  smile. 

But  Silas  shook  his  head. 

"Two  hundred,  or  I  wire  them  New  York  par 
ties  I've  been  dickerin'  with." 

And  Pendagrast  seen  that  he  was  like  adamant 
— like  adamant  covered  up  with  cotton-batting. 

"No,"  cries  Pendagrast,  "rather  than  have  you 
do  that,  I'll  pay  what  the  land's  worth." 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY          23 

"Two  hundred,"   says  Silas,   gentle  but   firm. 

Mrs.  Quinby,  looking  through  the  keyhole,  says 
she  seen  something  like  a  mortal  agony  wrench 
Pendagrast;  then  he  groaned  horrid,  showin'  the 
whites  of  his  eyes,  and  says  weak: 

"Fetch  pen  and  paper.  It's  highway  robbery, 
but  I'll  sign — I  got  to,"  he  says. 

"I've  the  papers  ready  for  you,"  says  Silas. 

Pendagrast  signed  them,  then  he  drawed  him 
self  up. 

"I  shudder  for  your  future,  Quinby,"  he  says. 
"No,  I  won't  shake  hands  with  you;  I  don't  feel 
cordial." 

And  he  groped  his  way  out  to  where  his  big 
tourin'-car  was  drawed  up  under  the  maples. 

And  that  was  how  Silas  Quinby  saved  the  valley; 
folks  something  like  ten  million  dollars  just  by 
bein'  such  a  simple  soul. 

The  lightnin'-rod  man?  Oh,  he  was  Penda- 
grast's  agent. 


THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS 

WHEN  the  Bad  Man  of  Las  Vegas  left  Bak 
er's  ranch,   taking  himself  reluctantly   from 
the  midst  of  the  unrighteous  revel  that  was  being 
held  there,  day  was  just  breaking. 

It  was  about  mid-morning  and  the  sun  was  high 
in  the  heavens  when  his  horse  stepped  gingerly 
over  the  cactus  bushes  and  into  the  well  worn 
trail  that  led  down  to  Las  Vegas. 
.  The  Bad  Man  drew  rein.  He  was  having  a  mo 
ment  with  his  conscience;  one  of  the  consequences 
of  the  early  ride;  or  it  may  have  been  the  unavoid 
able  aftermath  of  Baker's  whisky,  which  had  been 
not  only  abundant  but  vile. 

He  recalled  how  he  had  come  to  Las  Vegas,  a 
raw  lad  of  twenty.  He  saw  himself  as  he  was 
then,  lank  and  wondering,  with  factory  bleached 
skin.  He  had  come  West  to  make  his  fortune. 
When  that  was  accomplished  he  was  to  return 
and  settle  down  in  the  old  home  where  his  godly 
forefathers  had  dwelt  since  Pilgrim  times,  self- 
respecting  and  respected. 

Las  Vegas  had  been  notorious  for  its  wicked 
ness  when  he  first  drifted  there.  For  a  while  he 
had  kept  clear  of  it  all,  then  the  experience  of  a 
single  night  had  changed  the  whole  after  current 

24 


THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS        25 

of  his  life.  Entering  one  of  the  gambling  hells  in 
search  of  a  friend,  he  had  found  him  at  cards 
with  the  bully  of  the  place.  He  had  tried  to  get 
him  from  the  room,  there  had  been  words,  a 
quarrel,  and  then  all  was  a  blank  until  he  awoke 
from  the  delirium  of  his  fear  and  anger  to  find 
himself  in  the  center  of  the  room,  beneath  the 
flaring  kerosene  lamps,  with  the  bully  dead  in  the 
shadow  at  his  feet. 

He  lived  the  years  swiftly  after  that,  in  a  sort 
of  mad,  blood-letting  frenzy.  Every  man  has 
friends,  and  one  killing  involves  other  killings. 
It  was  not  enough  that  he  had  killed  one  bad 
man;  he  must  keep  on  killing  bad  men  or  else 
fall  himself. 

He  had  preferred  to  keep  on.  He  speedily  ac 
quired  a  fatal  handiness  with  his  weapons,  in  a 
few  months  growing  into  the  strong  alert  man 
capable  of  holding  his  own  against  all  comers. 

He  knew,  though  the  change  came  slowly  and 
almost  imperceptibly,  that  he  was  none  the  less 
surely  living  toward  that  day  when  he  would  be 
hunted  out  of  Las  Vegas;  when  the  advancing 
tide  of  civilization  would  touch  and  pause  there, 
and  his  career  would  culminate  with  one  murder 
too  many. 

He  took  off  his  hat  to  let  the  wind  fan  his 
forehead.  It  was  like  the  springs  he  had  known 
in  the  East. 

He    seemed    to    catch    the    odor    of    roses    and 


26          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

honeysuckle — he  remembered  his  first  and  only 
love.  Their  parting  came  back  to  him  with  vivid 
minuteness  of  detail.  It  had  all  been  infinitely 
bitter  to  them,  but  he  was  going  where  a  man  had 
a  chance,  and  he  would  return. 

He  had  scarcely  thought  of  it  in  years,  and  now 
there  was  only  the  scent  of  the  flowers  and  her 
face  rising  out  of  the  gray  plain  before  him.  She 
had  done  her  part  faithfully  and  then  she  had 
married,  to  live  her  days  amid  the  hard  common- 
placeness  of  the  little  eastern  village  where  she 
was  born. 

The  Bad  Man  gathered  up  the  reins,  which  had 
fallen  from  his  hand  to  the  horn  of  the  saddle, 
and  was  about  to  apply  the  spur  to  his  horse's 
flank,  when,  glacing  back  over  his  shoulder,  he 
saw  a  wagon  coming  down  the  trail,  the  center 
of  a  moving  cloud  of  dust.  Influenced  by  a  sud 
den  impulse  he  could  not  explain,  he  permitted 
the  reins  to  fall  slack  again. 

As  the  wagon  came  nearer  he  saw  that  it  was 
a  homesteader's  outfit  drawn  by  a  single  horse 
that  was  dark  with  sweat  and  dust  and  flecked 
here  and  there  with  white  splotches  of  foam.  A 
man  was  driving,  and  at  his  back  a  woman's  face 
was  visible. 

As  the  wagon  drew  up  alongside  of  the  Bad 
Man  the  homesteader  reined  in  his  horse.  Las 
Vegas'  questionable  hero  spoke  first.  He  merely 
remarked  that  it  was  a  fine  day.  The  homesteader 


THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS        27 

inspected  him  narrowly  before  answering  the 
greeting,  then  he  said — and  his  tone  was  one  of 
surly  reserve,  while  his  manner  was  neither  easy 
nor  gracious — "It  is  a  fine  day." 

He  was  a  round-shouldered  man  of  thirty-five 
with  a  sallow  unhealthy  skin  and  a  scanty  ill-kept 
beard.  He  had  put  aside  his  coat  and  wore  only 
a  faded,  much  mended  cotton  shirt  and  overalls — 
once  blue,  but  now  showing  white  at  the  seams — 
tucked  carelessly  into  the  tops  of  heavy  boots. 

The  woman  peered  out  anxiously  and  fearfully 
at  the  stranger. 

The  latter  said  by  way  of  continuing  the  con 
versation: 

"Where  are  you  bound  for,  pardner?" 

"Sunken  River  Valley.  Got  a  brother  there," 
was  the  gruff  response. 

The  Bad  Man  looked  him  over  carefully  and 
critically,  then  the  wagon,  and  last  of  all  the  horse. 
He  noted  that  the  wagon  showed  the  effects  of 
the  roads  and  a  long  journey.  The  jingle  it  sent 
forth  whenever  the  horse  moved  spoke  eloquently 
for  repairs.  The  horse,  however,  though  it  had 
been  driven  hard,  was  comparatively  fresh  and 
able.  The  gentleman  from  Las  Vegas  lived  in  a 
community  where  men  were  largely  judged  by 
their  horses,  and  he  decided  that  the  animal  be 
fore  him  was  a  recent  purchase. 

"Where  are  you  from?"  he  asked,  when  done 
with  his  scrutiny. 


28          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"Western  Kansas.  It's  a  hell  of  a  country. 
Grasshoppers  one  year  and  no  water  the  next. 
About  cleaned  me  out."  Then  he  added  surlily: 
"If  you  are  done  looking  me  over,  I  guess  I'll  be 
moving." 

Meantime  the  woman  had  disappeared  from 
view,  but  she  could  be  heard  speaking  to  some 
one  inside  the  wagon.  Then  a  child's  voice,  fret 
ful  and  tired,  answered  hers. 

The  homesteader's  manner,  even  more  than  his 
words,  was  an  affront  to  the  Bad  Man,  who  was 
perhaps  unduly  sensitive  in  such  matters.  He 
was  debating  whether  he  should  not  interpose, 
some  objections  to  his  continuing  on  his  road, 
when  the  woman  called  out  querulously:  "Do 
drive  on,  Joe.  It  seems  as  though  we  shall  never 
get  there!" 

The  man  saluted  with  his  whip.  "So  long." 
And  the  wagon  with  a  creak  and  a  rattle  rolled 
off,  jangling  as  it  went. 

The  Bad  Man  touched  his  horse  with  the  spur. 
"I'm  going  your  way,"  he  said. 

For  a  time  they  rode  on  in  silence.  Every  now 
and  then  the  homesteader  stole  a  glance  of  doubt 
and  mistrust  at  his  insistent  and  evidently  unwel 
come  companion.  Clearly  he  was  far  from  being 
at  ease.  Finally  he  said: 

"You  weren't  wanting  to  say  anything  in  par 
ticular  to  me,  were  you?" 

The  Bad  Man  regarded  him  with  mild  surprise. 
"I  reckon  not,"  he  answered. 


THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS        29 

"I  didn't  know.  Only  you  seemed  so  all-fired 
set  on  stickin'  close  to  me,  that's  all;  I  didn't  mean 
no  offense." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Bad  Man  turned  the 
matter  slowly  over  in  his  wind.  He  had  formed 
a  very  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  homesteader, 
and  was  wondering  whether  it  was  not  a  duty  he 
owed  society  to  tell  him  so  frankly.  He  allowed 
a  certain  latitude  because  of  the  different  sense 
of  humor  different  men  have,  but  there  was  noth 
ing  funny  about  the  homesteader.  He  was  just 
plain  uncivil. 

"Yes,  sir-ee,"  said  the  homesteader,  "western 
Kansas  is  a  hell  of  a  place.  It  ain't  worth  the 
powder  it  would  take  to  blow  it  to  blazes.  I  wish 
I'd  never  seen  it.  When  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
come  West,  my  wife  sort  of  persuaded  me  to 
stop  there.  She  didn't  want  to  go  any  farther. 
Sort  of  wanted  to  keep  somewhere  near  the  folks 
in  old  Vermont.  Then  she  was  taken  sick;  she 
was  ailing  before  we  started  West.  Then  our 
two  boys  up  and  died,  and  now  the  young  un's 
down.  It's  mighty  hard  on  her  ma.  I  got  a 
brother  in  Sunken  River  Valley,  and  some  of  the 
folks  from  back  East  moved  out  there  while  we 
were  in  Kansas.  My  wife  will  be  mighty  well 
satisfied  when  she  gets  among  her  own  sort  again. 
Women  get  lonely  so  darn  easy." 

They  could  hear  the  mother  singing  softly  to 
the  sick  child.  The  Bad  Man  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder. 


30          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"What's   the   matter?" 

"Fever,"  said  the  other  laconically. 

"So  you  are  from  Vermont?" 

"Yes.  Wish  I  was  there  now,  you  bet.  It's 
God's  own  country." 

"What  part  of  the  state  do  you  come  from?" 

"Central  part.     Barrettsville." 

The  Bad  Man  started  violently,  but  recovered 
himself  on  the  instant. 

"I  suppose  you  are  pretty  well  acquainted 
there?"  he  asked,  with  studied  indifference. 

"I  ought  to  be.     Lived  there  most  of  my  life." 

"That's  singular.  I  met  a  fellow  from  Vermont 
just  the  other  day,  from  Barrettsville,  too." 

"Lots  of  our  folks  have  come  \Yest.  They're 
scattered  all  over  out  here.  Some  of  'em  are 
doing  mighty  well,  too." 

"You  didn't  happen  to  know  the  Thomases, 
did  you?" — with  elaborate  carelessness. 

"Which?" 

"I  guess  the  man  I  am  asking  about  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  the  mills.  There  are  mills  there, 
ain't  there?" 

"Well,  I  declare!  That's  funny!"  and  the  home 
steader  laughed  a  mirthless  cackle.  "Should  say 
I  did  know  the  Thomases.  My  wife  was  a 
Thomas — old  French  Thomas'  daughter.  But" — 
lowering  his  voice — "the  old  man's  been  dead  five 
years  come  next  May." 

The  Bad  Man  turned  his  face  away. 


THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS        31 

So  that  was  the  woman  he  had  loved! 

There  was  silence  again,  undisturbed  save  for 
the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of 
the  wagon.  The  child  was  asleep,  and  its  mother 
no  longer  sang  to  it. 

The  homesteader  thrust  aside  the  flaps  and 
glanced  in.  The  woman,  with  the  child  in  her 
arms,  was  seated  on  a  mattress  at  the  back  of 
the  wagon,  looking  out  at  the  long  dusty  streak 
that  wound  over  the  range  and  lost  itself  in  the 
gray  distance  of  the  plain. 

Craning  his  neck  the  Bad  Man  saw  her,  and 
then  as  her  husband  dropped  the  flaps,  he  pulled 
up  his  horse  and  drew  in  behind  the  wagon.  The 
woman  raised  her  eyes. 

"Is  the  little  one  asleep?"  he  asked,  his  voice 
shaking  with  an  awkward  tenderness. 

"Yes.  She's  just  pining  away  for  green  fields 
and  trees." 

He  surveyed  the  woman  before  him  with  a 
certain  wonder.  He  would  never  have  recognized 
her,  she  was  so  changed,  so  altered  from  the  like 
ness  he  had  carried  in  his  heart;  but  now,  know 
ing  who  she  wras,  he  could  trace  where  she  had 
fallen  from  that  likeness.  He  was  quite  sure 
she  could  not  recognize  him,  for  he  had  changed, 
too,  but  in  a  different  way. 

"If  he'd  drive  slowrer,  wouldn't  it  be  easier 
for  her?" 

The  woman  looked  into  his  face  in  alarm. 


32          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"We  want  to  get  there  as  quick  as  we  can. 
Seems  as  though  we'd  never  get  there!" 

"You  can't   make   it   to-day." 

"My  husband  says  he'll  drive  till  he  gets  there 
if  it  takes  all  night." 

"There'll  be  a  dead  horse  between  the  shafts  if 
he  tries  it,"  said  the  Bad  Man  in  a  tone  of  calm 
conviction. 

"The  horse "  and  the  woman  stopped. 

"I  don't  reckon  he  sets  much  value  on  the 
brute  from  the  way  he  drives." 

The  woman  gazed  fixedly  into  his  face.  "Did 
he  tell  you?"  she  questioned  in  a  frightened 
whisper. 

In   a   flash   he   realized   what   the   trouble   was. 

"He   shouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  said   gravely. 

"I  know  that,"  she  answered  breathlessly.  "But 
what  could  he  do?  Our  own  horse  had  died.  We 
had  no  money,  and  with  the  baby  sick  we  just 
couldn't  stop!  If  he  is  found  out,  what  then?" 

The  Bad  Man  shook  his  head  dubiously.  "I'd 
rather  not  say." 

"Do  they  hang  men  for  horse  stealing?" 

"They  have,"  he  answered  shortly. 

Further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
sudden  stopping  of  the  wagon. 

"Darnation!     Which  trail  do  I  take?" 

The  Bad  Man  pointed  to  the  right. 

"There's  your  road.  You'll  find  it  plain 
enough." 


THE  BAD  MAN  OF  LAS  VEGAS        33 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  stranger.  I  don't  reckon 
you're  going  over  to  Sunken  River  Valley  your 
self?" 

"Hold  on;"  and  a  detaining  hand  was  placed  up 
on  the  lines  the  homesteader  held.  "That's  a 
good  horse  you're  driving,  pardner,  but  if  you 
keep  this  pace  you'll  take  only  his  hide  and  bones 
into  Sunken  River  Valley  with  you." 

"I've  got  to  get  there,  horse  or  no  horse,"  an 
swered  the  man  nervously. 

"How'd  you  like  to  trade?  I've  taken  a  fancy 
to  that  animal  of  yours,  and  if  you're  bent  on 
killing  a  horse  I  don't,  know  but  I'd  rather  have 
you  kill  the  one  I'm  riding." 

The  homesteader  leaped  from  his  seat  on  the 
instant. 

"I'll  do  it!"  Then  he  bethought  him  that  per 
haps  some  little  display  of  reluctance  might  be 
seemly  and  natural.  ".Your  horse  is  sound,  of 
course?" 

"Sound  as  a  dollar.  Look  it  over  if  you  don't 
think  so." 

The  woman  came  to  the  front  of  the  wagon, 
listening  breathlessly.  Now  she  put  the  flaps  aside 
and  looked  out. 

Her  husband  turned  to  her.  "We're  going  to 
swap  horses — you  don't  care,  do  you?" 

She  tried  to  meet  the  glance  of  the  Bad  Man, 
but  could  not. 

"It's  all  right,  wife?" 


34          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice;  "it's  all 
right." 

The  animal  was  already  free  from  the  shafts, 
and  at  her  word  he  led  it  out  from  between  them. 
The  Bad  Man  threw  himself  astride  the  stolen 
horse. 

"I'll  say  good  day  to  you,  pardner — and  to — 
you" —  to  the  woman,  and  without  a  word  more 
he  was  galloping  off  down  the  trail  toward  Las 
Vegas. 

"I  guess  I  was  darn  lucky  to  get  rid  of  that 
horse,"  the  homesteader  remarked,  as  he  gazed 
after  the  Bad  Man. 

The  woman  said  nothing.     She  only  wondered. 


/^v 


MOLLIE   DARLING 
of  the  warm  distance  came  the  song: 


"Do  you  love   me,  Mollie   darling? 
Say  you  love  none  else  but  me  —  " 


The  man  seated  in  the  cabin  door  raised  a  bat 
tered  face  and  listened,  as  down  the  trail  came 
the  singer  and  the  song. 

"Mollie,   sweetest,   fairest,   dearest; 
Look  up,   darling,   tell  me   this. 
Do  you  love  me,  Mollie  darling? 
Let  your  answer  be  a  kiss!" 

The  dog  at  the  man's  feet  cocked  his  head 
knowingly  on  one  side  and  seemed  to  listen,  too. 
The  man  addressed  the  dog. 

"Duffer,  that's  a  right  sweet  old  song,  ain't  it? 
—  a  right  plaintive  air.  When  you're  fifty  odd, 
Duffer,  them  old  songs  dig  holes  in  your  mem 
ory."  As  he  spoke  he  gently  caressed  the  dog. 
It  was  yellow  and  palpably  of  uncertain  breed, 
but  just  as  palpably  of  distinguished  social  quali 
ties.  "Duffer,  I'll  bet  you  what  you  like  he  ain't 
fifty,—  and  that  his  Mollie's  within  safe  walking 
distance!" 

35 


36          THE  HAND'  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Around  a  turn  in  the  trail,  a  winding  path  that 
led  up  and  up,  and  from  behind  a  big  boulder, 
came  the  singer  in  blue  work-stained  overalls  and 
blouse.  He  swung  a  tin  dinner  pail  with  one 
hand  and  his  cap  with  the  other.  His  years  were 
plainly  a  scanty  half  of  fifty.  Catching  sight  of 
the  man  in  the  cabin  door,  he  paused,  while  the 
song  died  abruptly  on  his  lips. 

"Hullo!"  he  said. 

"Evening,"  responded  the  man.  Middle  age 
had  put  its  stamp  upon  him;  hard-lived  years  ap 
parently,  for  he  was  lean  and  muscular,  with  the 
brown  skin  of  perpetual  sunburn.  A  long  scar 
slashed  the  bridge  of  his  beak-like  nose  and 
halved  a  shaggy  iron-gray  eyebrow  with  a  white 
welt.  The  eye  beneath  was  fixed  and  staring, 
yet  it  served  to  mitigate  and  soften  the  somewhat 
severe  expression  that  lurked  across  the  way,  as 
it  were,  on  the  other  side  of  his  face;  for  his  good 
eye  was  dark  and  piercing,  and  held  a  deep  spark. 

Duffer,  wagging  his  tail,  investigated  the  new 
comer.  He  sniffed  at  the  blue  overalls  that  kept 
the  rancid  odor  of  smoke  and  oil  and  machinery. 
The  young  man  clapped  his  cap  on  his  thick  mop 
of  black  curls,  opened  his  dinner  pail  and  found 
a  crust. 

"Think  he'd  like  this?"  he  asked  of  the  dog's  mas 
ter,  who  nodded.  Duffer  made  short  work  of  the 
crust,  and  then,  wise  and  inquiring,  nosed  the 
bottom  of  the  dinner  pail. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  37 

"What  do  you  call  this  place?"  inquired  the 
elder  man.  There  were  sixteen  houses  on  the 
bench  below. 

"Sunset, — Sunset  Limited,  some  of  us  calls  it. 
Say,  Alvarado's  knocked  the  spots  out  of  us, — so's 
Last  Pan,  so's  Buffalo  Bend.  Sunset  Limited, — 
yes,  sir,  and  that  ain't  no  joke  either!" 

"Quiet?" 

"You  can  hear  a  pin  drop  during  rush  hours. 
This  is  one  of  the  rush  hours,  me  going  home  to 
supper.  That  gives  you  the  dimensions  of  the 
rush."  The  young  man  laughed  pleasantly.  "My 
name's  Johnny  Severance,"  he  added,  by  way  of 
introduction. 

"Mine's   Brown." 

"Huh,"  said  Johnny.  "That's  Brown's  Peak 
you're  looking  at.  Brown  was  an  old-time  scout; 
he  stood  off  a  bunch  of  Apaches  here  way  back 
in  the  early  days.  They  named  the  mountain 
after  him." 

"You'll  always  meet  plenty  of  Browns  wher 
ever  you  go,"  said  the  owner  of  that  name,  in 
impartial  judgment  of  its  merits. 

"It  is  awful  common,"  agreed  Johnny.  "You 
prospecting?" 

Brown  shook  his  head. 

"Health,   mebby?" 

But  Brown's  appearance  was  strongly  against 
this  supposition.  "I  don't  want  no  more  health 
than  I  got,"  he  said. 


38          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

".Well,  you  do  look  hearty,"  admitted  Johnny. 
"But  every  now  and  then  they  blow  in  here  for 
their  health.  That  was  the  way  with  the  last 
fellow  who  had  this  cabin.  He  croaked."  And 
young  Mr.  Severance  sank  his  voice  in  decent  rec 
ognition  of  the  universal  tragedy.  He  continued: 
"I'm  keeping  the  pumps  up  at  the  Red  Bird  suck 
ing.  The  stockholders  are  suffering  from  cold 
feet.  Well,  so  long,  Mr.  Brown!"  and  he  moved 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  sixteen  houses  that 
constituted  Sunset. 

He  passed  fifteen  of  these  houses,  whose  back 
doors  looked  boldly  out  across  an  arid  valley  to 
a  distant  line  of  jagged  peaks  that  saw-toothed 
the  horizon  under  flaming  bands  of  color.  No 
one  of  the  fifteen  but  breathed  an  air  of  dilapida 
tion  and  neglect,  for  they  sepulchered  dead  hopes. 
The  sixteenth  was  in  pleasing  contrast;  it  was 
newly  painted  and  two  stories  high.  A  sign  an 
nounced  this  the  Mountain  House, — M.  Ferguson, 
Proprietor. 

Johnny  passed  about  a  corner  of  the  Moun 
tain  House  and  paused  beside  the  kitchen  door, 
where  there  was  a  barrel,  a  bench,  a  tin  basin, 
a  roller  towel,  a  cake  of  soap  and  a  sixty-mile 
view  set  under  the  splendid  arch  of  the  heavens. 
He  filled  the  basin  at  the  barrel,  tossed  aside  his 
blouse,  and  began  the  removal  of  such  evidences 
of  honest  toil  as  he  had  brought  away  from  the 
Red  Bird. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  39 

A  window  overlooked  the  bench,  and  he  was 
presently  aware  that  a  slender  bit  of  a  girl  was 
gazing  down  on  him  with  serious  blue  eyes  and 
smiling  warm  red  lips;  a  fresh  color  the  mountain 
wind  had  blown  there  was  in  her  soft  round 
cheeks,  which  held  a  dimple  that  came  and  went 
tantalizingly,  and  her  hair  curled  in  golden  dis 
array  about  her  pretty  face.  Johnny  stared  up 
at  her  through  a  mist  compounded  of  soap  and 
water. 

"My  eyes  are  chuck-full  of  suds,  but  I  can  see 
good  enough  to  know  you're  the  sweetest  thing 
that  ever  was,  Mollie, — honest  you  are!"  he  said. 

The  girl  laughed,  disclosing  a  row  of  white 
even  teeth. 

"Well,  will  you  just  get  on  to  them  dimples!" 
cried  Johnny. 

"Now,  Johnny, — honest?" 

"Honest,  what?" 

"The  sweetest  thing " 

"Wish  I  may  die  if  you  ain't !"  said  Johnny  fer 
vently. 

He  made  great  haste  with  the  towel,  then  he 
stepped  close  to  the  window.  His  mop  of  black 
curls  was  raised  toward  the  yellow  head,  there 
was  a  soft  sound  and  Mr.  Severance  seemed 
greatly  cheered  and  refreshed  by  something. 

"Mollie,  you  got  the  sweetest  lips  to  kiss, — • 
honest  you  have,"  he  said. 

The  girl  laughed  shyly. 


40          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"You  always  say  that." 

"You  want  I  should  aways  tell  you  the  truth, 
don't  you?"  he  demanded,  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders. 

"Can't  you  say  something  different?"  asked 
Mollie,  puckering  her  brows  and  then  dimpling 
at  him. 

"What's  the  use  of  trying?  You  bet  you  I 
don't  want  to  think  no  different,"  and  Johnny 
looked  at  her  with  adoring  eyes,  their  faces  very 
close  together.  Finally  he  released  her.  "Any 
news,  Mollie?"  he  asked. 

"The  gentleman  that's  bought  the  Pay  Streak 
over  at  Alvarado  was  here  for  lunch.  He  come 
in  a  big  touring-car  with  his  wife  and  baby,  and 
its  nurse.  They  seemed  awful  nice  people,  John- 
ny." 

"I  wish  I  had  his  bank  roll.  They  say  he's  a 
millionaire  all  right,"  said  Johnny. 

"Mollie !"  a  voice  called  from  within,  and 
Mollie  said  hastily  as  she  turned  away: 

"Supper's  on  the  table;  you  can  come  in  when 
you  get  ready." 

M.  Ferguson  was  another  Mollie,  the  younger 
Mollie's  aunt.  Years  before  while  Sunset  was 
still  a  prosperous  mining  camp,  she  had  come 
West  to  make  her  home  with  her  brother  and 
to  take  charge  of  his  motherless  child.  The 
brother  had  died  in  that  evil  time  when  the  bot 
tom  was  dropping  out  of  Sunset.  She  had  given 


MOLLIE  DARLING  41 

the  best  years  of  her  life  to  her  niece;  single- 
handed  she  had  fought  a  long  fight  with  adverse 
circumstances  and  had  won  a  modest  victory. 
Now  one  can  not  live  an  utterly  self-sacrificing 
life  to  no  purpose,  so  Miss  Mollie  had  a  certain 
sweet  dignity  that  came  of  much  goodness,  and 
a  soul  at  peace  with  itself. 

The  Mountain  House  was  a  part  of  the  niece's 
heritage.  It  was  kept  alive  by  chance  tourists. 
Johnny  was  the  regular,  the  star  boarder,  and 
frequently  the  only  one,  and  at  all  times  so  much 
at  home  that  he  usually  wiped  the  supper  dishes. 
Mollie  washed  them.  Johnny  was  the  trusted 
man  up  at  the  Red  Bird,  the  very  right  hand  of 
a  soulless  corporation  whose  only  symptoms  of 
life  were  in  its  feet  and  even  they  were  undeniably 
cold.  He  pulled  down  seventy  dollars  a  month 
just  as  easy!  With  all  this  wealth  pouring  in  up 
on  him  every  thirty  days,  with  money  saved,  too, 
and  Mollie  flitting  in  and  out  of  those  big  bare 
rooms  at  the  Mountain  House,  why,  no  wonder 
he  was  intent  on  matrimony! 

That  night  after  the  dishes  had  been  duly 
washed  and  as  duly  dried  in  the  intervals  between 
sundry  breathless  moments  when  Johnny's  black 
curls  and  Mollie's  golden  head  were  very  close 
together,  they  strolled  out  upon  what  had  once 
been  Sunset's  long  main  street,  past  the  houses 
that  still  fronted  it  and  up  the  trail  toward  the 
Red  Bird. 


42          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Miss  Mollie  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  Moun 
tain  House  in  the  warm  twilight  and  watched 
them  as  they  went  slowly  forward  arm  in  arm. 
They  brought  back  the  sentiment  of  youth,  and 
she  shared  vicariously  in  its  romance.  Yet  there 
was  a  heartache  scarcely  stilled  in  the  realization 
that  the  imperceptible  gradations  of  time  had 
swept  her  away  from  the  morning  world  in  which 
youth  dwells;  that  for  her,  beginning  to  be  vis 
ible  down  the  pathway  of  the  years,  were  the  si 
lences — the  solitudes  that  she  must  before  long  enter 
alone. 

The  twilight  deepened.  The  last  vestige  of 
color  faded  from  the  sky.  The  white  cap  of 
Brown's  Peak  sank  into  the  gloom,  merged  with 
the  blue  of  the  heavens  and  was  lost  to  sight. 
There  was  a  footfall  on  the  path  as  a  tall  shadow 
detached  itself  from  the  night,  and  Mr.  Brown, 
with  his  dog  Duffer  at  his  heels,  paused  on  the 
step.  Seeing  a  woman  in  the  doorway  of  the 
lighted  office,  he  removed  his  hat. 

"Evening,"  he  said. 

"Won't  you  step  in?"  asked  Miss  Mollie,  slip 
ping  aside  her  chair  which  blocked  the  entrance. 
"I  guess  you're  Mr.  Brown  Johnny  was  telling 
us  about  at  supper?"  she  added. 

"Yes,  ma'am."  Mr.  Brown  looked  severe  and 
even  purposeful,  but  his  voice  held  a  shy  defer 
ential  note. 

"He's  not  used  to  women,"  thought  Miss  Mol 
lie. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  43 

From  under  the  flapping  brim  of  his  hat  Brown 
stole  a  covert  glance  in  her  direction.  She  was 
very  good  to  look  at,  he  decided,  with  her  soft 
brown  hair  drawn  smoothly  back  from  her  comely 
face,  and  her  dark  eyes  that  held  just  the  hint 
of  a  sorrow  lightly  borne. 

Subsequently  he  negotiated  for  one  meal  a  day 
at  the  Mountain  House.  He  elected  that  this 
meal  should  be  supper,  because  he  would  then 
have  the  moral  support  of  Mr.  Severance's  pres 
ence. 

When  he  had  tested  it  he  found  that  Sunset 
yielded  a  superior  article  of  peace.  Save  for 
Johnny,  who  passed  his  cabin  twice  a  day,  he  was 
undisturbed.  Usually  it  was  Johnny's  morning 
song  that  brought  him  awake, — Johnny  on  his 
way  toward  the  gaping  hole  at  the  timber  line 
with  Mollie's  farewell  kiss  sweet  upon  his  lips. 
Yet  Mr.  Brown  did  not  succumb  to  the  charms  of 
Sunset  without  a  struggle.  He  told  Duffer  each 
morning: 

"I  guess  we'll  pull  out  of  here  to-morrow,  old 
sport!" 

But  the  to-morrows  became  a  respectable  divi 
sion  of  time,  and  presently  as  a  concession  to 
some  inherent  love  of  accuracy  Mr.  Brown 
changed  his  formula. 

"I  guess  we'll  be  leaving  here  along  about  day 
after  to-morrow!" 

But  the  days  after  to-morrow  went  to  join  the 
to-morrows,  and  Brown  still  lingered  in  Sunset. 


44          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

Into  this  Eden,  like  another  serpent,  came  Mr. 
Bunny,  his  hair  slicked  low  across  his  forehead 
and  tastefully  roached  back  over  one  ear.  He 
breathed  an  air  of  profound  sophistication.  John 
ny  and  he  met  at  the  bench  by  the  kitchen  door 
where  Mr.  Bunny  was  bestowing  certain  deft 
touches  to  his  toilet. 

"Say,  pardner,  this  million-dollar  palace  hotel 
seems  to  be  mainly  in  the  hands  of  the  suffra 
gettes,  don't  it?"  he  remarked. 

Johnny   surveyed   him   without    favor. 

"Huh!"  he  said,  and  scooped  up  a  basin  of 
water  from  the  barrel.  Mr.  Bunny,  not  easily 
discouraged,  waited. 

"What's  your  name,  pardner?"  he  presently 
asked. 

"Severance,"  said  Johnny  shortly. 

"Say,  I  knowed  a  fellow  of  that  name  in  the 
Klondike, — I'm  a  liar  if  I  didn't.  He  was  a  card- 
player.  We  was  awful  intimate — " 

"Huh!"  said  Johnny  again.  He  was  not  im 
pressed  with  Mr.  Bunny  nor  Mr.  Bunny's  friend. 

Mollie  appeared  at  the  window,  but  catching 
sight  of  Mr.  Bunny  she  vanished  into  the  inner 
regions  of  the  Mountain  House. 

"Mama!  mama! — what  was  that?"  cried  Mr. 
Bunny  softly,  in  admiration. 

"Look  here !"  said  Johnny,  wheeling  on  him. 
"You  cut  that  out!" 

"It's  the  climate,  pardner.  These  here  high 
altitudes  braces  a  man  up  most  amazin' " 


MOLLIE  DARLING  45 

"The  climate's  all  right,  but  you  can  get  just 
as  rank  here  as  anywhere  else,"  warned  Johnny. 
Mr.  Bunny  gave  him  a  sidelong  glance.  Johnny 
completed  his  toilet  in  silence. 

"Going  in  to  supper  now,  Mr.  Severance?" 
asked  Mr.  Bunny  affably. 

Johnny  nodded,  led  the  way  around  the  build 
ing,  in  through  the  office,  and  on  into  the  dining- 
room  where  sat  Miss  Mollie,  inoffensive  Mr. 
Brown  and  Mollie  at  supper.  He  presented  Mr. 
Bunny  with  no  little  formality. 

Mr.  Bunny's  company  manners  immediately  de 
veloped  one  striking  merit.  They  seemed  to 
afford  their  fortunate  possessor  the  greatest  pos 
sible  satisfaction  and  confidence.  Also  when  you 
tapped  Mr.  Bunny  you  tapped  an  unfailing  spring. 
Moreover  he  had  a  generous  and  withal  a 
thoughtful  nature,  had  Mr.  Bunny,  especially  was  it 
thoughtful. 

"Miss  Ferguson  will  try  them  pickles,  Mr.  Sev 
erance.  Just  chase  the  butter  down  this  way,  Mr. 
Brown, — Miss  Mollie's  aimin'  her  eye  at  it.  Mr. 
Severance,  'low  me  to  shoot  a  slice  of  bread  on  to 
your  plate  .  .  ."  This  and  much  more  of  a  sim 
ilar  character  in  the  interval  of  agreeable  and 
easy  conversation,  the  burden  of  which  Mr.  Bunny 
lightly  sustained.  And  while  he  talked,  his  small 
wicked  eyes,  close-set  under  their  low  brows  and 
of  an  indeterminable  color,  slid  around  in  a  fur 
tive  circle.  They  took  in  everything,  but  they 
came  back  and  back  to  Mollie. 


46          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Say,  Denver,  Albuquerque,  Dawson,  'Frisco, — 
I've  seen  'em  all;  and  say,  I've  seen  a  lot  of  life, 
too, — and  me  only  twenty-five.  How  many  fel 
lows  do  you  reckon  have  been  about  as  much  as 
me?  But  I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight  when  I 
say  it's  good  to  hit  a  place  like  this  where  you 
feel  at  home,  and  where  you  can  wash  out  of  a 
tin  basin  at  the  back  door  like  you  done  at  moth 
er's!" 

Johnny  listened  abashed  to  Mr.  Bunny's  easy 
flow  of  words.  It  might  have  occurred  to  him 
that  this  fascinating  stranger  never  spoke  of  any 
body  but  himself;  that  his  own  moods,  emotions, 
ambitions,  thoughts  so  called,  occupied  him  en 
tirely  and  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  for  he 
moved  in  a  world  of  men  rock  walled  by  his  own 
towering  egotism.  It  was  wasted  labor  to  try 
to  change  the  drift  of  the  conversation.  What 
ever  was  said  instantly  reminded  Mr.  Bunny  of 
himself.  At  the  most,  one  merely  opened  up 
fresh  and  inviting  fields  for  him  to  enter  and 
claim  his  place  in  the  foreground. 

After  supper  he  cornered  quiet  Mr.  Brown  in 
the  office.  That  gentleman's  bad  eye  had  attract 
ed  his  attention,  and  he  seized  the  first  oppor 
tunity  to  ask  Brown  how  he  came  by  that  scar, 
thus  artfully  framing  a  question  that  covered  the 
eye  as  well. 

"Knife  slipped  while  I  was  picking  my  teeth," 
said  Brown,  regarding  him  malevolently. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  47 

"Say,  I  thought  you  might  have  bit  yourself 
accidental,"  responded  Mr.  Bunny. 

In  the  kitchen  Johnny  was  talking  earnestly 
with  Mollie,  as  they  washed  and  dried  the  sup 
per  dishes. 

"Don't  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  fal 
low,  Mollie " 

"Why,  Johnny?" 

"Well,  mainly  because  he's  no  good.  He's  the 
rankest  proposition  I  even  stacked  up  against, 
and  I've  seen  'em  as  rank  as  they  make  'em." 

Mollie  puckered  her  brows  thoughtfully.  She 
was  fond  of  Johnny  and  they  were  engaged,  but 
all  the  same  she  had  the  very  human  quality  of 
disliking  orders,  and  Johnny's  voice  smacked  of 
command. 

"I  thought  he  was  entertaining,  and  that  he  had 
nice  table  manners,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  didn't  notice  'em  if  he  had.  I  hate 
these  smart  geezers!" 

"He  was  awful  polite,  Johnny."  She  wished 
Johnny  to  be  fair  to  the  stranger;  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  affronted  by  his  foolish  jealousy. 

"Fresh,"  said  Johnny,  "if  you  call  that  being 
polite." 

No  more  was  said  then,  but  somehow  when 
they  walked  up  the  trail  there  was  this  between 
them,  and  they  walked  farther  apart  than  usual. 
They  were  silent,  too,  a  good  deal  of  the  time. 
Moreover  it  was  a  short  walk;  but  before  they 


48          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

reached  the  hotel  Johnny  had  returned  to  the 
vexed  subject  of  Mr.  Bunny  and  the  treatment 
Mollie  was  to  accord  him. 

"Mollie,  you  are  not  going  to  talk  to  that  fel 
low  any  more,  are  you?" 

"Certainly  I  shall  talk  to  him.  I  am  not  going 
to  be  impolite  just  because  you  are,"  rejoined 
Mollie,  with  a  little  toss  of  her  head. 

Johnny  flushed  hotly,  then  the  color  faded  from 
his  face. 

"All  right  then,  if  you'd  rather  talk  to  him  than 
me,  you  can,  but  I  won't  be  here  to  listen  to  it — 
I  can  tell  you  that!" 

They  had  reached  the  door  by  this  time,  and 
Mollie,  holding  her  chin  very  high,  said  coldly: 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Severance, — I  think  I  must 
go  in.  Thank  you  for  your  company." 

Johnny  gasped,  then  he  said  politely: 

"Good  night,  Miss  Ferguson,"  and  turned 
away,  while  Mollie  went  up  to  her  room  with 
burning  cheeks  and  smarting  eyes. 

But  it  was  not  until  she  was  safe  in  bed  that 
she  shed  a  few  surreptitious  tears. 

"He  might  have  known  .  .  .  that  I  care  more 
for  his  little  ringer — than  for  all  the  Mr.  Bunnys 
in  the  world!"  she  whispered  tremulously  to  her 
self  under  cover  of  the  friendly  darkness. 

Mr.  Bunny,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  remained  in 
Sunset.  He  discovered  that  M.  Ferguson  desired 


MOLLIE  DARLING  49 

to  introduce  water  on  her  premises.  She  designed 
to  have  flowers,  a  kitchen  garden  and  grass.  This 
involved  a  half-mile  of  ditch.  He  let  it  be  known 
that  for  a  proper  consideration  he  might  be  in 
duced  to  betake  himself  to  ditching,  though  he 
also  let  it  be  known  that  this  was  a  pursuit  he 
should  never  look  back  upon  with  any  feeling 
even  remotely  approaching  pride.  He  further 
gave  M.  Ferguson  to  understand  that  he  had  re 
cently  lifted  a  mortgage  on  his  widowed  mother's 
quarter-section  back  in  Nebraska.  This  had  taken 
his  last  cent.  He  drove  a  much  better  bargain 
in  consequence,  did  artless  Mr.  Bunny. 

To  Johnny  he  had  already  explained  that  he 
had  impoverished  himself  in  Albuquerque;  his  at 
tentions  to  a  handsome  brunette  having  been  the 
immediate  cause  of  his  financial  undoing.  Later 
she  had  proved  unworthy  of  his  generosity.  He 
was  hitting  the  high  places  now  mainly  because 
of  the  throw-down  she  had  given  him.  He  indi 
cated  that  this  throw-down  had  been  cruel  and 
perfidious  beyond  words.  Brown  had  heard  the 
same  story  from  Mr.  Bunny's  own  authentic  lips, 
but  in  his  case  Mr.  Bunny  had  added : 

"Say,  I  put  my  coin  on  the  black.  You  watch 
me  make  my  next  play  on  the  red.  That  ought 
to  fetch  a  change  of  luck." 

Then  one  morning  Johnny's  song  failed  to  rouse 
Mr.  Brown,  but  its  very  absence  at  the  accus 
tomed  hour  brought  him  wide  awake.  He  heard 


50          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Johnny's  step  on  the  path,  and  looking  from  his 
window  saw  Johnny  go  by,  his  curly  head  bowed 
and  his  shoulders  rounded. 

Mr.  Brown  sat  in  his  cabin  door  and  considered 
the  situation  over  his  morning  pipe.  Subsequently 
he  sought  out  Mr.  Bunny,  peacefully  ditching,  gun 
on  hip.  Not  that  Mr.  Bunny  was  actually  ditch 
ing;  truth  compels  the  statement  that  he  was 
seated  on  a  flat  rock  with  his  spade  within  easy 
reach.  Mr.  Brown  addressed  the  ditcher: 

"Ain't  you  rinding  this  a  mighty  sedentary 
job?"  he  asked. 

"Shucks!  I've  made  big  money  in  my  time, — 
ten  a  day  in  the  Klondike  tending  bar " 

"What  you  getting  here?" 

"A  dollar  fifty,  and  my  board,"  said  Mr.  Bunny 
sheepishly. 

"Why,  she's  doing  you — ain't  she?"  cried  Brown. 
"Robbing  you  right  along!  No  wonder  you're 
warming  them  rocks.  A  dollar  fifty  to  a  high- 
priced  man  like  you  hardly  pays  for  the  trouble 
of  drawing  your  wages!" 

Mr.  Bunny  looked  off,  got  up,  dug  his  spade 
disconsolately  into  the  bank,  threw  a  couple  of 
shovelfuls  from  him  with  disdain;  and  sat  down 
once  more.  Brown  regarded  him  earnestly. 

"And  your  mother  back  in  Nebraska  on  that 
quarter-section,  like  I  heard  you  tellin'  Miss  Fer 
guson  at  supper  last  night,  looking  anxious  to 
you  to  remit  .  .  .  and  that  handsome  brunette 


MOLLIE  DARLING  51 

down  in  Albuquerque  that  cost  you  such  a  pot  of 
money.  .  .  .  Say,  Mr.  Bunny,  you  got  to  do  some 
mighty  close  figurin',  ain't  you,  to  make  both  ends 
meet?" 

"Just  between  ourselves,  Brown,  you  can  cut 
out  the  mother, — but  I  was  giving  it  to  you 
straight  about  the  other." 

"Well,  I  see  you  got  all  the  feelings  of  a  high- 
priced  man;  it  naturally  fusses  you  to  think  how 
Miss  Ferguson's  taken  advantage  of  you.  Dollar 
fifty, — why,  that  ain't  whisky  money  for  an  am 
bitious  fellow  like  you." 

"You're  right,  it  ain't,"  said  Mr.  Bunny,  shak 
ing  his  head  ominously.  "I'm  going  to  pull  out 
of  here  soon.  Say,  Brown, — "  he  continued  con 
fidentially,  "I  could  take  her  away  from  him — " 
and  he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  Mountain 
House.  Mr.  Brown  understood  he  was  referring 
to  Mollie  now.  "Just  as  easy  as  nothing.  All  I 
got  to  do  is  just  to  crook  my  finger  at  her, — 
see?"  said  Mr.  Bunny.  "But  pshaw!  I  don't 
marry.  They  none  of  'em  ketch  me.  I'll  have 
my  fun  with  a  fair-looker,  spend  my  money  on 
her.  but  there  ain't  an  ounce  of  matrimony  in  my 
system."  And  into  Brown's  ears  he  poured  a 
tale  of  triumphant  sin,  giving  Mr.  Brown  to  un 
derstand  that  he,  Bunny,  was  a  bee  among  the 
flowers. 

Brown  was  viewing  the  gun  on  Bunny's  manly 
hip  with  a  wistful  eye.  It  had  been  years  since 


52          THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

he  had  renounced  such  vanities.  Bunny  leaned 
over  to  pick  up  a  stone. 

"Say, — what  in  blazes  you  up  to?"  he  cried, 
for  Brown  had  deftly  slipped  the  gun  from  its 
holster.  He  fell  back  a  step  and  gave  Bunny  the 
benefit  of  his  good  eye.  Mr.  Bunny  was  instantly 
conscious  of  a  cold  feeling  at  the  pit  of  his 
stomach.  "Say,  you  give  me  back  my  gun!" 
And  he  began  to  bluster. 

"Forget  it!"  said  Mr.  Brown  softly.  "If  a  man 
took  that  trail  and  kept  moving,  he'd  be  in  Alva- 
rado  by  to-morrow  night " 

"Give  me  back  my  gun,  Mr.  Brown " 

"I  never  did  believe  in  these  here  private  irri 
gation  projects,"  said  Brown.  "And  I  don't  be 
lieve  you're  the  man  to  put  this  one  through." 
He  drew  back  the  hammer  of  the  gun. 

"Say — it's  loaded,  Mr.  Brown — "  cried  Bunny. 
"Look  out!" 

"Of  course  it's  loaded.  I  wouldn't  insult  you 
by  thinking  you  packed  an  empty  gun.  You  keep 
moving  at  a  reasonable  rate  of  speed  and  you 
can  be  counting  the  lamp-posts  in  Alvarado  to 
morrow  night, — seven  on  Main  Street,  and  four 
on  Prairie  Avenue.  You're  wasting  your  time 
here.  .  .  .  No, — you  don't  need  to  go  down  to 
the  Mountain  House — you  can  start  here!" 

"Say,  she's  owing  me  money,  Mr.  Brown.  A 
man  wants  what  he's  earned,  don't  he?"  said 
Bunny  meekly,  but  disposed  to  raise  an  issue. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  53 

"Of  course  he  does, — but  he  don't  want  what 
he  ain't  earned."  Brown  looked  at  him  with 
weary  petulance.  "Ain't  you  open  to  a  hunch?" 
The  muzzle  of  the  gun  menaced  Bunny,  who  fell 
back  a  step  in  consternation,  ducked,  turned  and 
fled  shamelessly. 

Brown  returned  to  his  cabin  feeling  that  he  had 
permanently  eliminated  the  fascinating  Mr.  Bun 
ny,  and  evidences  of  a  certain  austere  pleasure 
radiated  from  his  damaged  features.  But  though 
the  hour  arrived  when  Johnny  Severance  should 
have  come  striding  down  the  path  from  the  Red 
Bird,  head  thrown  back  and  shoulders  squared  as 
he  swung  his  cap  and  dinner  pail,  it  brought  no 
Johnny;  and  Brown,  disturbed  and  wondering,  set 
out  alone  for  the  straggle  of  buildings  on  the 
bench. 

He  found  two  anxious-faced  women  at  the 
Mountain  House;  the  eyes  of  each  were  red  from 
much  weeping,  and  he  surmised  that  there  had 
been  a  crisis — that  his  well-intentioned  interfer 
ence  had  been  too  long  delayed — and  he  suffered 
a  moment  of  intense  humiliation.  He  had  figured 
creditably  in  more  than  one  strenuous  human 
drama,  but  never  before  had  he  to  reproach  him 
self  with  being  dilatory.  It  gave  him  a  unique 
sensation. 

Supper  was  eaten  in  dreary  silence.  At  first 
Miss  Mollie  had  attempted  to  talk  to  her  guest, 
but  her  voice  was  forced  and  unnatural  and  now 


54          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

and  again  trailed  off  into  what  sounded  very  like 
a  sob,  while  Mollie's  big  blue  eyes  were  misted 
lakes  of  sorrow.  In  the  presence  of  their  grief 
Brown  was  stricken  into  speechless  shyness.  He 
felt  that  the  feminine  soul  was  a  curious  and  an 
awesome  thing;  he  stood  close  to  it  with  trepida 
tion.  But  he  did  not  lack  a  certain  deep  integrity, 
— he  would  see  this  thing  through  to  a  finish. 

After  supper  he  hung  around  the  office,  where 
presently  Miss  Mollie  joined  him.  He  sensed  it 
that  his  hostess  was  only  anxious  to  have  him 
go,  yet  he  lingered,  perturbed  and  ill  at  ease.  At 
last  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"I  don't  see  nothing  of  Mr.  Severance,"  he  re 
marked  with  diffidence,  as  one  who  had  encroach 
ed  on  a  forbidden  subject. 

The  tears  swiftly  gathered  in  Miss  Mollie's  soft 
brown  eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  gone,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  pause.  Brown  followed  a  crack 
in  the  floor  from  the  desk  to  the  wall  opposite 
and  back  again  with  his  embarrassed  glance. 

"Anything  happened?"  he  at  length  asked,  and 
the  very  bluntness  of  his  query  threw  him  into  a 
state  of  intense  and  painful  confusion,  but  he 
gripped  himself  hard  and  went  on.  "She" — he 
jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  dining- 
room  where  Mollie  could  be  heard  clearing  away 
the  supper  dishes — "she's  feeling  pretty  bad,"  he 
hazarded,  and  once  more  was  stricken  dumb. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  55 

"Yes,  she's  feeling  awful  bad,  Mr.  Brown. 
Johnny's  gone.  He  sent  down  word — a  good-by 
— from  the  Red  Bird  this  afternoon,  and  said  he 
was  going." 

Brown  considered. 

"He  should  be  fetched  back,"  he  presently  ob 
served  with  conviction. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Bunny?"  asked  Miss  Mollie,  and 
her  tone  betrayed  anxiety. 

Brown  flushed  under  his  sunburn. 

"He's  left  Sunset.     He  went  sudden." 

"Did  they — did  he  and  Johnny  meet? — was 
there  trouble?"  began  Miss  Mollie. 

"No,  ma'am.  Bunny  had  his  reasons  for  going. 
They  looked  good  to  him  and  nothing  was  hold 
ing  him,  so  he  just  went.  I  seen  him  when  he 
went.  It  looked  like  it  come  over  him  all  at  once 
that  he  had  ought  to  go,"  explained  Mr.  Brown 
considerately  and  at  length. 

"I  am  so  glad!  I  was  afraid  that  perhaps  they 
had  met." 

"Where's  Johnny  gone?"  inquired  Brown. 

"We  think  to  Alvarado." 

Mollie  had  appeared  in  the  dining-room  door 
way  and  was  listening,  but  Brown's  back  was 
turned  toward  her. 

"What's  to  hinder  my  going  there  after  him?" 
asked  Brown.  "I  can  produce  an  argument  he'll 
listen  to."  Unconsciously  his  hand  rested  on  Mr. 
Bunny's  gun. 


56          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"It's  awful  kind  of  you  to  suggest  it,  but  per 
haps  you  shouldn't  go;  it  may  make  trouble  for 
you,"  said  Miss  Mollie.  It  was  the  habit  of  a 
lifetime  with  her  to  think  of  others. 

"You're  a  good  kind  man!"  cried  Mollie  fer 
vently  through  her  tears,  advancing.  "You  tell 
him  that  I  just  hate  and  despise  that  Bunny.  .  .  . 
I  didn't  mean  anything  I  said.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry — 
sorry!"  She  seized  one  of  his  hands  in  both  of 
hers.  "Oh,  he  must  come  back! — tell  him  to  come 
back,  Mr.  Brown " 

"I'm  aimin'  to  tell  him  just  that, — and  he'll 
come  back  all  right,"  Brown  assured  her. 

"Do  you  think  he  will? — do  you  ...  do  you?" 

"I  was  never  surer  of  anything  in  my  life." 

Mollie  relinquished  his  hand,  and  throwing  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  him.  An  instant  later 
and  she  had  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and 
was  sobbing  aloud. 

Mr.  Brown's  unhandsome  face  flushed  scarlet. 
Never  in  all  his  varied  experience  had  he  known 
anything  like  this.  Then  his  face  grew  white, 
and  he  shook  as  he  had  never  shaken  in  the  pres 
ence  of  danger,  violence,  or  the  risk  of  sudden 
death. 

Johnny  Severance  had  quitted  the  Red  Bird  and 
turned  his  face  in  the  direction  of  Alvarado.  Two 
years  of  perfect  happiness  had  vanished  in  the 
cataclysm  that  had  overwhelmed  him  and  Mollie. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  57 

A  sudden  mist  swam  before  his  eyes.  Well,  she 
hadn't  treated  him  right,  but  he  hoped  she  would 
find  peace, — he  was  man  enough  to  wish  no  less. 
He  must  shape  his  own  future  out  of  the  wreck 
she  had  made;  though  this  didn't  matter  greatly, 
since  he  was  sure  life  held  nothing  for  him, — in 
deed,  he  rather  gloated  in  the  thought  of  an  ex 
istence,  bleak,  purposeless  and  incomparably  lone 
ly, — and  again  the  mist  seemed  to  burn  his  very; 
eyeballs,  while  it  sent  the  gray  valley  and  the  line 
of  purple  peaks  deep  into  the  distance. 

He  kept  the  trail  for  Alvarado  all  that  day  and 
at  nightfall  went  into  camp.  Necessity  now  drove 
him  to  the  lunch  he  had  brought  away  from  the 
Red  Bird.  He  choked  over  each  mouthful,  for 
Mollie's  small  deft  hands  had  been  busy  here. 
He  reflected  bitterly  that  never  again  was  this 
to  be. 

"It'll  be  up  to  some  chuck-house  cook  to  fill 
my  dinner  pail!"  he  murmured  sadly.  With  the 
final  mouthful  he  felt  that  he  had  destroyed  the 
last  link  that  bound  him  to  the  past. 

Morning  found  him  sorely  tempted  to  pocket 
his  pride  and  go  back,— back  to  Mollie,  his  pumps 
at  the  Red  Bird  and  the  Mountain  House;  but 
he  sternly  repressed  this  ignoble  weakness.  No, 
sir!  She  had  cast  him  off.  Yet  he  sat  a  long 
time  with  his  head  bowed  in  his  hands  and  watch 
ed  the  light  flood  the  valley.  Then  again  he  took 
the  trail.  His  steps  lagged.  Not  that  he  was 


58          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

tired,   but   the   cataclysm   was   somehow   seeming 
less  complete  than  it  had  seemed  the  day  before. 

He  went  forward,  steadily  resolute,  with  his 
chin  sunk  on  his  breast  and  his  glance  lowered. 
Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  some  one  was 
coming  along  the  trail  toward  him  and  looked 
to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Bunny. 
There  was  a  strained  moment,  then  Bunny,  eying 
him  askance,  put  out  his  hand. 

"Why,  how  are  you,  pardner?"  he  said.  Johnny 
ignored  the  hand.  "Say,  what's  your  grouch?" 
inquired  Mr.  Bunny  in  a  tone  of  affected  aston 
ishment.  Johnny  gave  him  a  look  of  scorn.  "Oh, 
that, — well,  see  here,  Mr.  Severance,  I  ain't  no 
plaster  saint,  but  say,  I'm  on  the  level.  Yes,  sir, 
— I  didn't  interfere  none  between  you  and  your 
girl " 

"Who  said  you  did?"  demanded  Johnny,  angry 
with  himself  for  allowing  such  a  thought  to  gain 
a  place  in  Mr.  Bunny's  mind. 

"Then  why  don't  you  shake  hands?" 

"I'm  willing  enough  to  shake  hands,"  responded 
Johnny  sourly. 

"You  didn't  look  like  you  was,"  said  Bunny. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Mr.  Bunny's  orig 
inal  idea  had  been  that  Johnny  had  followed  him 
with  sinister  intent;  since  this  was  evidently  not 
the  case,  what  was  he  doing  here?  While  he  was 
debating  this  point,  a  somewhat  similar  problem 
was  occupying  Johnny.  He  had  supposed  Bunny 


MOLLIE  DARLING  59 

still  at  Sunset.  "It's  mighty  agreeable  to  meet 
old  friends,  ain't  it,  Mr.  Severance?  You  going 
on  to  Alvarado?" 

Johnny  signified  that  this  was  not  unlikely. 

"Say,  when  did  you  leave  Sunset,  pardner?" 
continued  Bunny. 

"Yesterday,"  said  Johnny  briefly. 

"Say,  if  we'd  knowed  what  was  in  each  other's 
minds  we  might  have  come  away  together,"  ob 
served  Bunny. 

"You  going  on  to  Alvarado?"  inquired  Johnny. 

"Not  immediate,"  said  Bunny  hastily.  "Yes 
terday  I  run  into  a  old  friend  who's  been  doing 
a  bit  of  prospecting.  He's  pulled  down  a  grub 
stake.  Say,  I'm  considering  a  proposition  he's 
made  me.  He's  back  yonder  a  spell."  And  Bunny 
nodded  indefinitely. 

"Well,  so  long!"  said  Johnny. 

"So  long,  pardner,"  responded  Bunny.  They 
shook  hands  and  separated. 

Mr.  Bunny  passed  back  along  the  trail  and  was 
presently  lost  to  sight  behind  a  gray  fold  of  the 
hills.  Johnny  found  a  convenient  boulder  and  sat 
down  to  consider  this  meeting  from  every  point 
of  view. 

"I  reckon  he  lied  about  that  grub-stake, — I 
reckon  he's  going  back  to  Sunset!"  was  his  defi 
nite  conclusion.  "Honest,  he's  the  most  ambitious 
liar  I  ever  listened  to!" 

He  quitted  his  boulder  and  went  forward,  but 


60          THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

very  slowly  now.  Memories  of  Sunset,  memories 
of  Mollie,  were  tugging  at  his  heart-strings.  All 
at  once,  breaking  in  upon  the  silence  in  which 
he  moved,  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  turning, 
was  again  gladdened  by  the  sight  of  Mr.  Bunny, 
who  was  coming  along  the  trail  at  a  brisk  run. 

''Say,  pardner,"  he  panted,  when  he  had  gained 
a  place  at  Johnny's  side,  "would  you  be  willing  to 
help  a  fellow  creature  in  distress?  Oh,  not  me, — 
a  fellow  named  Graham;  a  intimate  friend  of 
mine,  and  a  fellow  in  the  hardest  sort  of  luck. 
It'd  make  a  wooden  Indian  shed  tears  to  hear 
his  hard-luck  story;  and  he's  met  with  a  accident. 
Say,  you're  a  western  man, — I  reckon  you 
wouldn't  turn  your  back  on  no  fellow  being  in 
real  eighteen-carat  distress  the  way  Bob  Graham  is!" 

"What's  the  matter  of  him?"  asked  Johnny, 
with  a  striking  lack  of  interest. 

"One  thing,  he's  got  a  hurt  leg;  spraint  it  on 
these  here  rocks  and  he's  sufferin'  something  aw 
ful.  But  what  he's  sufferin'  in  his  spraint  leg 
ain't  a  circumstance  to  what  he's  sufferin'  in  his 
mind.  You  bet  you,  that's  what  gets  a  fellow 
every  time !  I  know,  'cause  I  know  what  I  went 
through  with  when  that  brunette  throwed  me 
down  in  Albuquerque  after  getting  all  my  coin. 
I  don't  pose  as  no  blighted  being,  but  say,  it  was 
agony — yes,  sir,  agony!" 

"Is  this  the  fellow  you  were  telling  me  about 
first?  Look  here,  Bunny,  you  began  pleasant 


MOLLIE  DARLING  61 

enough  with  a  grub-stake,  and  now  I'm  hearing 
all  about  a  spraint  leg,"  said  Johnny. 

"Well,  what's  to  keep  a  man  from  having  a 
grub-stake  and  a  spraint  leg  simultaneous?  You 
come  with  me,  and  I'll  show  you  Bob  Graham 
who's  got  both." 

"Huh !"  said  Johnny. 

"I  can't  tell  you  all  Bob's  story,  but  there's  a 
woman  into  it,  his  wife, — yes,  sir.  Say,  talk  about 
throw-downs!  Why,  he's  got  yours  and  mine 
beat  to  a  pulp.  Ain't  it  tough  the  way  women 
do? — how  they  show  you  the  high  places  and  then 
give  you  the  laugh?  Say,  Mr.  Severance,  there 
was  reasons  why  I  couldn't  give  it  to  you  straight 
about  Bob  without  consulting  him.  If  you  feel 
afraid  of  anything " 

"What  of?"  demanded  Johnny  quickly. 

"Durned  if  I  know,  but  some  people  are  timider 
than  others,"  said  Bunny,  with  an  oblique  glance. 

"You  show  me  this  friend  of  yours,"  said 
Johnny. 

Mr.  Bunny  led  the  way  back  down  the  trail  to 
the  point  where  Johnny  had  previously  seen  him 
disappear.  They  climbed  a  hill  and  entered  a 
small  bottom.  Here,  prone  on  his  back  and  gaz 
ing  peacefully  up  at  the  hot  sky,  was  a  gentleman 
of  singularly  unprepossessing  exterior.  When 
aware  that  his  solitude  was  being  invaded  he  ut 
tered  sundry  heartrending  groans  and  fell  to 
nursing  his  right  leg,  which  was  elaborately  ban 
daged  in  strips  torn  from  a  blanket. 


62          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Sh< — "  said  Bunny,  over  his  shoulder  to  Johnny. 
"Sh— ain't  it  pitiful  ?" 

The  groans  were  continued  with  increasing 
vigor. 

"Bob!"  whispered  Mr.  Bunny.  "Bob,— old 
pardner !" 

"Is  that  you,  Bunny?  I  reckon  I  must  have 
fell  asleep,"  said  the  sufferer  weakly. 

"Say,  Bob,  I  want  you  should  shake  hands  with 
Mr.  Severance." 

Bob  raised  himself  with  apparent  difficulty  on 
one  elbow,  and  extended  his  hand. 

"How  are  you,  Bob?"  continued  Mr.  Bunny 
with  anxious  solicitude.  "But  I  can  see  it's  painin' 
you  something  awful!" 

"Folks,  I've  spraint  my  leg, — mebby  she's 
broke — "  and  Bob  groaned. 

"You  want  a  doctor — "  said  Johnny.  Mr.  Bun 
ny  and  the  sufferer  exchanged  significant  glances. 

"Folks,  it  ain't  my  leg  that's  hurtin'  me  most, — 
it's  here — "  and  Bob  rested  his  hand  on  the  bosom 
of  his  shirt. 

"Stomach?"  said  Johnny  innocently. 

"Sh, — heart !"  said  Bunny  quickly. 

"My  feelin's  are  raisin'  hell  inside  of  me.  This 
spraint  leg  ain't  nothin'."  But  Mr.  Graham 
groaned  lustily.  "Mebby  if  you  two  was  to  help 
me,  I  could  manage  to  hobble  to  my  shack.  .  .  . 
No,  stranger" — to  Johnny,  as  they  set  out — "I 
don't  want  no  doctor.  He  might  set  my  leg,  but 


MOLLIE  DARLING  63 

he  couldn't  cure  me.  Folks,  I'm  hard  hit  where 
no  pills  can  ever  get  to." 

They  helped  him  back  into  the  hills,  but  had 
Johnny  been  a  little  less  disposed  to  confidence 
he  might  have  doubted  the  integrity  of  that 
sprained  leg,  for  Bob  had  a  curious  way  of  for 
getting  and  then  suddenly  remembering  it  with 
many  groans.  If  Johnny  noticed  this  at  all  it  only 
went  to  prove  Mr.  Bunny's  statement  that  the 
mind  of  man  was  capable  of  furnishing  a  very 
superior  article  of  suffering. 

Mr.  Graham's  retreat  was  a  shack  set  down  in 
a  grove  of  young  pines.  As  far  as  Johnny  could 
see,  his  grub-stake  seemed  to  be  in  a  convenient 
liquid  form. 

"Put  the  bottle  down  beside  me,  Bunny,  where 
I'll  have  it  handy,"  said  Bob,  when  they  had 
helped  him  to  his  bed  on  the  floor  in  a  corner  of 
the  room. 

"He  needs  a  stimulant,"  explained  fluent  Mr. 
Bunny.  "When  you're  sufferin'  like  Bob  is,  you 
got  to  take  a  stimulant." 

"Folks,  I've  knocked  around  a  heap,"  said  Bob. 
"I've  drunk  whatever  can  be  got  through  the 
bung-hole  of  a  barrel  or  out  of  the  neck  of  a 
bottle ;  but  when  a  man's  really  suffering  whisky's 
got  all  the  other  souse  skinned  a  mile!" 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  asked  Bunny  of  Johnny, 
with  a  glance  of  commiseration. 

"Besides,  I  don't  have  no  doctor  from  Alvarado, 


64          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

• — my  enemy's  got  the  everlasting  drop  on  me, 
that's  why!  If  my  leg's  spraint  she  can  stay 
spraint — if  she's  broke  she  can  stay  broke!"  added 
Bob  with  resolute  stoicism. 

"You  certainly  talk  like  a  man,  Bob!"  said 
Bunny  admiringly. 

"If  I  could  only  jest  see  my  child — "  said  Bob, 
and  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  before  his  eyes. 

"It's  them  domestic  feelin's  that's  hurtin'  him 
so,"  wrhispered  Bunny  to  Johnny.  Aloud  he  said: 
"I'm  in  favor  of  tellin'  Mr.  Severance  just  how 
you  stand,  Bob, — why  you  can't  have  no  doctor." 

"Kin  you  vouch  for  Mr.  Severance?" 

"Of  course  I  can  vouch  for  him.  Ain't  I  told 
you  he  was  a  hundred  per  cent,  all  right?"  cried 
Bunny  warmly.  He  fixed  Johnny  with  his  shifty 
glance  and  went  on. 

"When  I  first  knowed  Bob  it  was  in  Ogden. 
He  was  a  residin'  snug  and  makin'  a  good  livin', 
ownin'  a  saloon.  There  was  no  business  man 
there  thought  higher  of.  He  had  a  nice  trade 
and  plenty  of  friends  because  he  was  always  aimin' 
to  please.  He  was  a  married  man,  was  Bob,  and 
had  a  wife  and  kid.  .  .  .  Say,  when  you  know 
what  a  woman  can  do  to  a  man!  You  bet  you 
if  I  get  many  more  throw-downs  like  I  got  in 
Albuquerque  I'm  going  to  cut  'em  out!  Well, 
Bob  had  the  happiest  home  you  about  ever  see. 
He  owned  a  piano  and  a  fast-steppin'  buggy  horse, 
— and  talk  about  your  family  man!  I  often  says 


MOLLIE  DARLING  65 

to  him,  I  says,  'Say,  Bob,  this  looks  awful  good 
to  me  and  I  don't  know  but  you  are  to  be  envied, 
yet  it  comes  over  me,  ain't  a  man  takin'  long 
chances  when  he  centers  all  his  happiness  on  a 
woman  like  this?'  I  says,  'Say,  it's  mighty  nice 
to  set  here  in  your  parlor  and  listen  to  Mrs.  Bob 
hit  the  hurdy-gurdy,  but,'  I  says,  'are  you  sure  of 
her? — as  sure  of  her  as  you  are  of  yourself?' 

"Say,  I  must  have  had  a  hunch, — for  along  comes 
a  Boston  man.  Say,  she  was  fascinated!  Here 
was  steady-goin'  old  Bob  doin'  a  nice  business 
and  never  dreamin'  that  a  spider  was  gettin'  ready 
to  drop  into  his  sirup!  Well,  one  day  Mrs.  Bob 
and  the  kid  were  missin'.  Next  Bob  heard  she 
was  up  at  that  stylish  place  in  Nevada  where  the 
divorces  come  from.  Bob  just  sacrificed  every 
thing.  He  wanted  his  boy  back.  He  was  willin' 
to  pass  the  mother  up  if  she  felt  like  that,  but  he 
wanted  the  boy.  Well,  say,  he  followed  'em  from 
place  to  place,  and  finally  the  Boston  man  come 
here  and  bought  the  Pay  Streak  over  at  Alvarado. 
Bob  followed  'em,  but  the  Boston  man  had  the 
sheriff  fixed.  He  showed  Bob  the  outside  of  the 
town — that's  what  he  done!" 

Johnny  had  heard  of  the  Boston  man  and  the 
purchase  of  the  Pay  Streak.  He  permitted  his 
glance  to  stray  in  Bob's  direction.  He  had  not 
liked  Mr.  Graham's  looks  from  the  first,  and  he 
was  liking  them  even  less  as  time  went  on. 

"I  don't  care  a  cuss  for  nothin'  but  the  boy," 


66          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

said  Bob  the  business  man.  "She  can  stick  to  her 
millionaire, — she's  throwed  me  down, — but  I  want 
to  see  the  boy  just  once  and  kiss  him  on  his  little 
lips,  and  say  good-by  and  get  out.  Folks,  I  know 
when  I  been  hit  by  the  trolley." 

"Ain't  it  pitiful? — and  him  with  his  spraint 
leg?"  murmured  Mr.  Bunny.  "Just  wantin'  to 
say  good-by  to  his  kid  before  he  fans  it  on  out 
of  here!" 

"It  ain't  much  to  ask,"  said  Bob  gloomily. 
"And  yet  I  dunno  as  I  shall  ever  see  him  again, 
or  hear  his  sweet  little  voice  call  me  daddy  like 
he  done  in  Ogden.  I  reckon  they've  learnt  him 
to  call  the  Boston  man  that  afore  this." 

"Ain't  that  heart-breakin'  for  you?"  cried  Mr. 
Bunny. 

"If  he  could  just  be  fetched  out  here  so  I  could 
kiss  him  good-by,  I'd  feel  a  heap  better,  folks. 
But  I  dassant  go  into  Alvarado.  And  you  don't 
go  there  either — they'd  spot  you  for  my  friend." 

"Ain't  that  a  frame-up  for  you,  pardner?"  Bun 
ny  appealed  to  Johnny.  "And  yet  nothing  could 
be  easier  according  to  what  Bob's  told  me  than 
to  fetch  the  kid  out  here.  His  nurse  trundles  him 
to  the  Pay  Streak  every  morning  in  his  little  buggy 
when  his  imitation  daddy  goes  up  there, — see? 
And  she  trundles  him  back  alone, — it's  a  good 
mile. — Say,  Bob,  I  wished  I  could  help  you !" 

"I  only  wants  to  kiss  him  just  once  or  mebby 
twict,"  said  Bob  mournfully. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  67 

A  brief  pause  ensued.  Johnny  moved  uneasily 
in  his  seat.  He  felt  curiously  committed  to  Mr. 
Bunny  and  his  afflicted  friend.  For  some  reason, 
which  he  obscurely  sensed,  it  was  apparently  up 
to  him  to  produce  the  child  for  that  farewell  kiss 
on  which  Mr.  Graham's  happiness  seemed  so 
largely  to  depend. 

"I  hate  to  see  a  western  man  downed!"  re 
sumed  Bunny.  "Say,  Mr.  Severance,  when  I  met 
Bob  last  night  I  told  him  about  you — I'm  a  liar 
if  I  didn't! — I  says  to  Bob,  I  says,  'Say,  Bob,  we 
don't  want  no  yearlin's  in  this.'  I  says,  There's 
a  fellow  back  yonder  I'd  give  a  heap  to  have  with 
us.'  I  wouldn't  insult  you  by  offerin'  money  for 
the  job!"  concluded  Bunny  with  generous  enthu 
siasm. 

"No,"  said  Johnny  hastily.  "I  ain't  lookin'  to 
earn  no  money  that  way."  He  appeared  entirely 
credulous,  since  he  felt  it  to  be  his  best  protec 
tion,  but  he  was  deeply  regretting  the  alacrity 
with  which  he  had  followed  Mr.  Bunny. 

"There  weren't  many  husbands  like  Bob  here, 
— that  gentle  and  considerate  and  always  aimin' 
to  please.  Say,  pardner,  you  take  it  straight  from 
me, — it  ain't  the  man  any  more,  it's  the  bank  roll 
the  dolls  are  after!  That  Boston  man  was  a  in 
grate, — I  told  you  so,  Bob, — you  remember? — I 
says,  'Bob,  he  acts  white  on  the  surface,  but  he's 
a  ingrate  all  the  same! — and  I  hate  a  ingrate!' 
Say,  I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  a  conservative." 


08          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

After  tying  himself  up  in  this  verbal  knot,  Bunny 
heaved  a  sigh. 

Johnny  glanced  about  him.  He  was  meditating 
flight.  The  ideal  parent  had  sniffed  audibly  at 
Bunny's  moving  peroration. 

"Sh — "  said  Bunny  softly.  "Ain't  it  rank,  the 
affection  a  man  feels  for  his  own  child? — how  it 
kin  make  him  suffer  and  suffer?'* 

Certain  sounds  issued  from  Bob's  vexed  interior 
which  were  supposed  to  be  indicative  of  the  an 
guish  of  soul  that  shook  him. 

"Say,  Bob/'  said  Bunny,  "I'm  in  favor  of  lettin' 
Mr.  Severance  in  on  this  with  us.  I  got  a  heap 
of  confidence  in  him, — and  if  it's  agreeable  to  you 
I'm  willin'  he  should  fetch  your  child  out  here. 
We'll  fix  it  this  way :  He'll  be  on  the  watch  when 
the  nurse  and  the  Boston  man  takes  the  kid  up 
to  the  Pay  Streak,  like  you  say  they  do  every 
mornin', — see? — he'll  wait  until  she  gets  half-way 
back  to  Alvarado,  then  he  meets  her  strollin' 
casual  along  like  he  was  goin'  up  to  the  mine. 
He  snatches  the  kid  out  of  his  little  buggy  and 
skips  with  him,  does  Mr.  Severance.  I'll  be  hid 
back  in  the  hills  a  ways  and  when  he  gets  to  me 
I'll  take  the  kid  off  his  hands— see?" 

But  Johnny  did  not  see.  He  suddenly  placed 
his  veto  on  this  ingenious  scheme. 

"What!"  cried  Mr.  Bunny  in  hurt  astonish 
ment.  "You  mean  you  ain't  with  us,  pardner? — 
after  we've  took  you  into  our  confidence  like  this 
.  .  .  and  you  a  western  man?" 


MOLLIE  DARLING  69 

"No,"  said  Johnny.  "I  never  had  no  luck  in 
pickin'  up  strange  babies.  Seems  there's  some 
thing  in  the  way  I  take  hold  of  'em  that  makes 
'em  holler." 

"And  say,  you  call  yourself  a  western  man?" 
said  Bunny  in  a  tone  midway  between  pity  and 
contempt. 

"I'm  awful  sorry, — honest!  He's  been  treated 
tough  all  right."  And  Johnny  glanced  inquiringly  at 
Bob. 

"And  you  don't  put  out  your  hand  to  help  a 
fellow  creature  up  who's  down?"  demanded  Bun 
ny.  "Here  you  go  wormin'  your  way  into  other 
folk's  confidence  and  then  you  give  'em  the  laugh, 
— you're  a  peach  of  a  fellow!"  The  glance  of 
his  shifty  eyes  became  suddenly  wicked  and  vin 
dictive.  "Say,  you'd  ought  to  be  beat  up  some, — 
a  reptile  like  you!" 

"I'm  in  favor  of  givin'  Mr.  Severance  another 
chance  to  show  there's  good  stuff  in  him,  Bunny," 
said  Bob.  "I'm  in  favor  of  offerin'  him  money 
for  the  job.  What's  a  few  dollars  to  come  be 
tween  a  parent  and  his  love  for  his  child?" 

"What's    your   price,    pardner?"    asked    Bunny. 

"No,"  said  Johnny.  "If  I  seen  a  way  open  to 
help  Mr.  Graham  I  wouldn't  want  money  for  doin' 
him  a  good  turn, — honest  I  wouldn't."  He  quit 
ted  his  seat. 

"Say,  you  set  still !"  warned  Bunny  menacingly. 
"We  ain't  through  with  you.  We've  took  your 
measure,  and  your  dimensions  don't  suit!" 


70          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Johnny  was  unarmed,  while  Mr.  Bunny  wore  a 
gun  on  his  hip,  a  spare  weapon  he  had  borrowed 
from  Graham  to  replace  the  one  of  which  Brown 
had  despoiled  him.  He  half  drew  it,  then,  chang 
ing  his  mind,  he  snatched  up  a  stick  of  fire-wood. 
Johnny  backed  hastily  into  a  corner. 

"Shoot  his  feet  out  from  under  him,  Bunny!" 
advised  Bob. 

"I  use  a  stick  on  snakes!"  Bunny  heaved  up 
his  club. 

But  just  here  a  notable  interruption  occurred. 
The  door  of  the  shack  yielded  to  a  man's  hand, 
and  swunk  back  plainly  disclosing  Brown's  gaunt 
figure. 

Bob,  in  the  exigencies  of  the  moment,  forget 
ting  his  sprained  leg,  sprang  to  his  feet,  while 
Bunny  dropped  his  stick  and  reached  for  his  gun. 
Indeed,  the  motion  being  made  nimbly,  his  fingers 
even  touched  it.  They  did  no  more.  There  was 
a  shot  and  he  emitted  a  howl  of  anguish.  Simul 
taneously  with  Bunny,  Bob  had  reached  for  his 
weapon  with  confidence  and  speed,  for  in  certain 
select  circles  he  enjoyed  something  of  a  reputa 
tion  as  a  gun-fighter;  but  he  was  no  more  for 
tunate  than  his  friend.  He  was  quick,  but  Brown 
was  quicker.  His  hand  traveled  with  the  speed 
of  light.  Apparently  he  had  no  use  for  sights. 
He  pointed  his  gun  as  casually  as  a  man  points 
his  finger  at  an  object  and  with  the  same  instinc 
tive  accuracy.  In  this  particular  instance  Bob 
was  the  object. 


MOLLIE  DARLING  71 

"You  travel!"  said  Brown  to  Johnny,  who 
backed  from  the  shack.  Brown  lingered  to  say 
a  few  fervent  words.  When  he  was  gone,  Bunny 
glanced  at  Bob,  who  was  cursing  while  he  nursed 
a  shattered  wrist;  he  himself  was  shot  in  the 
shoulder. 

"Say,  it  was  a  man  named  Brown — "  said  he 
weakly. 

Johnny  and  his  rescuer  moved  rapidly  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  trail. 

"It  was  awful  unexpected  the  way  you  showed 
up,"  said  Johnny.  He  glanced  at  Brown,  dazed 
and  wondering.  "Why,  I  didn't  think  you  were 
within  thirty  miles  of  here  .  .  .  you've  got  the 
full  use  of  your  two  hands!  You've  been  consid 
erable  of  a  man  in  your  day, — and  I  wouldn't  rec 
ommend  no  one  to  fool  with  your  remains " 

"Was  you  hunting  trouble,  Johnny?  I  seen 
that  fellow  with  the  tied-up  leg  sentenced  two 
years  ago  for  a  hold-up  he'd  pulled  off  in  Alva- 
rado.  Incidental  I'd  like  to  ask  you  did  you  be 
lieve  what  they  told  you  about  his  wife  and  child? 
They  were  aimin'  to  use  you  in  a  kidnaping 
scheme.  Young  man,  they  say  a  fool's  born 
every  minute.  I  reckon  you  arrived  punctual  on 
the  clock  tick  all  right." 

"You  don't  think  I  believed  'em,  Mr.  Brown — 
honest?"  protested  Johnny. 

"They  weren't  taking  chances — they  were  will- 
in*  to  pass  them  along  to  you.  It  looked  like 
you'd  feed  right  out  of  their  hands,  sonny!" 


72          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  couldn't  see  no  other  way  out  of  it.  Where 
are  we  going  now,  Mr.  Brown?" 

"To  Sunset." 

"I  can't  go  back  there, — honest,   I   can't!" 

"Why   not?" 

"Well,— just  because  I  can't.  She— Mollie— " 
began  Johnny  doggedly,  and  paused  abruptly. 

"Naturally  she's  feeling  some  annoyed  the  way 
you've  acted,  but  if  you  go  back  humble  .  .  . 
Look  here, — you  don't  know  the  first  thing  about 
a  woman's  love.  It  don't  go  by  merit.  Just  look 
at  a  woman, — take  her  as  a  mother, — it's  a  boy, 
or  a  girl,  or  it's  twins, — and  she's  there  with  her 
love.  She  never  makes  a  kick,  not  she !  That 
boy,  or  that  girl,  or  them  twins,  suit  her  appa 
rently  down  to  the  ground.  It's  pretty  much  the 
same  when  it's  a  case  of  man.  You  come  along 
and  you're  what  she  loves;  not  because  you're 
any  good — which  you  ain't — but  you're  what  life's 
offerin*  her  and  it's  up  -to  her  to  make  the  best  of 
her  chances.  Does  she  notice  any  rake-off  when 
she  sizes  you  up?  Nope,  she  don't.  It's  her  na 
ture  to  make  mistakes  and  have  poor  judgment. 
She  just  loves  you  because  you  happen  to  be  you. 
That  there's  a  sixty  dollar  a  month  limit  to  the 
game  you'll  play,  don't  bother  her  none,  for  she's 
got  a  heap  more  courage  than  sense;  she  takes 
her  fightin'  chance.  She's  ready  to  believe  in  the 
luck  you'll  never  taste,  and  through  it  all  think 
you're  a  good  man  but  unfortunate." 


MOLLIE  DARLING  73 

"I  wonder  feeling  that  way  about  women,  you 
ain't  never  married,"  said  Johnny. 

"I  respect  'em  too  highly.  But  if  I  ever  had 
any  idea  of  that  kind,  I  wouldn't  be  like  you, 
young  man !  I'd  never  go  further  than  the  Moun 
tain  House, — M.  Ferguson,  Proprietor." 

It  was  a  week  later.  A  crescent  moon  swung 
low  in  the  heavens  and  lighted  up  the  trail  that 
led  past  Brown's  cabin.  Its  faint  radiance  showed 
Johnny  and  his  Mollie  walking  very  close  to 
gether,  as  was  their  wont,  while  they  talked  in 
ecstatic  whispers  in  the  intervals  of  tender  silences 
that  brought  them  dim  night  sounds  from  the  val 
ley  below. 

In  their  wake,  but  at  a  discreet  distance,  for 
youth  was  having  its  right  of  way  upon  the 
mountainside,  came  Miss  Mollie  and  inoffensive 
Mr.  Brown,  with  Duffer  at  their  heels.  Miss  Mol- 
lie's  unaccustomed  hand  rested  lightly,  shyly,  on 
Brown's  arm.  She  was  scarcely  trusting  her  hap 
piness.  Those  solitudes  she  had  once  feared  were 
to  be  shared  with  the  man  at  her  side,  whom 
Johnny  had  not  ceased  to  exalt  as  a  singularly  ca 
pable  gentleman,  and  that  quick — my! — one  who 
undertook  to  keep  engagements  with  him  was 
likely  to  experience  a  terrible  sense  of  being  late. 
Miss  Mollie  was  already  realizing  this.  She  moved 
as  one  in  a  dream.  The  heart  of  youth  had  quick 
ened  in  her  breast,  the  hard  years  were  forgotten. 


74          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Why,  the  very  mountain  seemed  to  nod  a  bene 
diction  in  the  half  light. 

"You're  a  mighty  good  woman,  Mollie,"  said 
Brown.  He  seemed  to  expand  with  an  austere 
joy.  "If  there  are  any  crowns  in  the  next  world 
you'll  be  wearin'  one  instead  of  the  sunbonnet 
you've  worn  in  this." 

"You're    a    good    man,    too.      Just    look    what 

you've  done  for  those  two  children,  Mr.  Brown 
» 

"Joseph — "  corrected  Mr.  Brown  gently,  "or 
just  Joe,  when  you  get  more  used  to  the  idea." 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS 

WHEN  he  told  me  his  story,  prefacing  it  with 
a  scrap  of  philosophy,  John  Norton  as 
sured  me  it  differed  from  that  of  scores  of  other 
men  of  his  class  but  in  one  or  two  unimportant 
particulars.  He  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  one 
need  not  necessarily  be  a  genius  to  get  ahead  in 
this  world;  there  are  other  qualities  almost  any 
man  can  cultivate  which  command  opportunity, 
and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  spoke  with  the 
authority  of  a  rather  conspicuous  success,  he  dis 
claimed  the  possession  of  any  special  ability  above 
the  average. 

To  begin  with,  Norton  had  much  of  the  cheer 
ful  ambition  characteristic  of  the  average  Amer 
ican.  He  had  been  thoroughly  drilled  in  the  idea 
that  the  one  thing  needful,  if  one  wished  to  get 
on,  was  industry, — given  this,  the  results  were  as 
certain  as  that  two  and  two  make  four. 

He  was  a  broad-shouldered  young  fellow,  more 
than  commonly  prepossessing,  with  an  utter  ab 
sence  of  any  ability  for  sharp  practise;  indeed,  he 
was  inclined  to  view  his  fellows  with  a  gentle 
kindly  confidence  that  proved  costly  until  he 
learned  caution,  and  even  then  he  was  not  bitter, 
only  a  little  hurt. 

75 


76          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

He  came  of  honest  stock  and  of  people  in  com 
fortable  circumstances,  proud  of  their  traditions 
and  their  respectability  and  rather  regretful  of 
the  fortune  old  General  Norton  had  somehow  lost 
when  he  emigrated  from  Virginia  to  Ohio  in  1814. 

Perhaps  John  would  not  have  felt  called  upon 
to  make  the  plunge  into  business  had  his  father 
kept  his  name  off  the  notes  of  his  neighbors;  as 
a  consequence  of  his  indiscretions  the  broad  acres 
he  had  inherited  slipped  away  piecemeal. 

John  was  the  eldest  of  four  boys  and  the  first 
to  leave  home.  At  twenty  he  went  East.  He 
recognized  that  he  would  probably  have  a  good 
many  tips  and  downs  before  he  finally  got  placed, 
and  he  was  thankful  his  career  was  to  be  among 
strangers. 

He  was  not  much  worried  in  the  beginning  over 
ways  and  means,  for  his  father  sent  him  money 
each  week,  and  small  as  the  sums  were  they  gave 
him  a  pleasing  sense  of  security.  He  soon  dis 
covered  that  merely  to  make  a  living  can  be  a 
difficult  problem;  it  also  dawned  upon  him  that 
he  reached  the  solving  of  the  problem  in  a  round 
about  fashion  through  a  haze  of  uncertainty. 

After  his  father's  death,  when  it  became  neces 
sary  for  him  to  make  his  own  way  unaided, 
he  brought  to  the  task  a  sad  earnestness.  He 
was,  he  felt,  without  business  tact — indeed,  the 
word  business  comprehended  all  of  which  he  was 
most  ignorant.  He  could  never  impress  people 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      77 

with  the  importance  of  those  benefits  they  would 
derive  from  thinking  as  he  wished  them  to  think, 
for  he  was  never  quite  sure  about  the  benefits. 
He  could  feel  himself  shrink  and  dwindle  and 
grow  limp,  when  what  he  needed  was  a  convinc 
ing  force.  Still  it  continued  part  of  his  faith  that 
there  was  some  work  he  could  do  well,  and  that 
sooner  or  later  he  would  have  the  opportunity 
to  do  it.  He  was  a  little  shocked  to  find  that 
there  was  no  particular  merit  in  being  well-born 
and  well-bred. 

He  was  in  rapid  succession  clerk,  traveling 
salesman,  bookkeeper,  advertising  solicitor  and 
real-estate  agent;  he  went  from  place  to  place 
hoping  each  time  he  made  a  change,  that  now  he 
was  nearer  success. 

Meanwhile  his  mother  died,  and  the  home  had 
been  sold  to  pay  his  father's  debts.  His  brothers 
had  scattered, — one  was  in  California,  a  clerk  in 
a  store,  another  was  a  miner  in  Colorado,  a  third 
has  gone  to  South  America,  while  Tom,  the 
youngest,  was  editor  of  a  country  newspaper  in 
Texas. 

At  thirty  John  married,  and  wisely  concluded 
that  the  day  for  experiments  was  past.  The  idea 
that  he  was  to  acquire  riches  he  put  resolutely 
aside;  if  he  could  make  a  decent  living  it  was  all 
he  dared  expect. 

It  remained  for  Mr.  Thomas  Haviland,  of  Bliss, 
Haviland  and  Company,  to  give  him  his  oppor- 


78          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

tunity.  When  he  got  with  this  concern,  John  felt 
the  connection  to  be  a  really  notable  one.  The 
position  carried  a  salary  of  twenty  dollars  a  week 
with  a  fortnight's  vacation  each  summer  on  full 
pay.  There  was  one  drawback.  The  managing 
director  had  the  reputation  of  being  exacting  and 
hard  to  please,  with  a  disagreeable  temper  and 
variable  moods,  but  John  was  fully  prepared  to 
make  some  sacrifices  to  obtain  steady  employ 
ment.  He  wanted  to  be  thrifty  and  sensible.  One 
of  the  first  things  he  did  was  to  have  his  life  in 
sured.  This  gave  him  a  solid  and  substantial  feel 
ing,  alike  new  and  comfortable.  Later,  perhaps, 
he  would  be  able  to  open  a  bank-account. 

He  was  relieved  to  find  he  could  do  this  work, 
about  which  he  had  had  many  misgivings,  as  well 
as  there  was  any  need  for  it  to  be  done.  He  was 
fortunate  in  the  start  in  escaping  all  personal  con 
tact  with  Haviland,  or  his  satisfaction  with  him 
self  and  his  lot  might  have  been  less  pronounced. 
The  managing  director  had  a  genius  for  taking 
the  very  marrow  out  of  a  man's  bones  and  the 
hope  out  of  his  heart.  On  principle  he  never  re 
spected  those  in  his  employ.  He  would  probably 
have  explained  his  attitude  by  saying  it  was  im 
possible  to  respect  men  who  were  content  to  earn 
beggarly  salaries  of  from  fifteen  to  thirty-five  dol 
lars  a  week.  Even  at  these  prices  it  must  be 
owned  he  contrived  to  surround  himself  by  an 
uncommonly  low  grade  of  business  intelligence. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS       79 

Perhaps  he  liked  the  contrast  it  offered  to  the  vig 
orous  grasp  he  always  maintained  on  affairs. 

The  clerks  carried  on  their  work  in  fear  and 
trembling,  conscious  that  at  any  moment  Havi- 
land  might  come  out  of  the  private  office,  purple- 
faced  and  furious  over  a  trifling  blunder,  to  lash 
them  with  sarcasms  that  cut  like  a  knife, — or  even 
worse,  some  poor  devil  would  be  summoned  into 
the  private  office  to  explain;  an  utterly  hopeless 
proposition,  as  Haviland  could  not  sit  quietly 
through  an  explanation.  He  made  mistakes  him 
self,  but  he  refused  to  recognize  the  right  of 
others  to  do  so;  at  least  he  would  not  listen  to 
their  excuses.  He  complained  continually  that 
the  clerks  wasted  his  time,  which  he  valued  at  a 
fabulous  figure,  but  he  would  spend  half  a  morn 
ing  criticizing  the  mental  equipment  of  a  shaking, 
underfed,  five-dollar-a-week  man,  and  then  dis 
miss  him  as  if  he  were  the  scum  of  the  earth, — a 
mere  thing. 

John  saw  and  heard  a  good  deal  that  filled  him 
with  astonishment  the  first  few  weeks  he  spent 
in  the  office  of  Bliss,  Haviland  and  Company,  and 
he  decided  that  Haviland  was  not  a  gentleman, 
and  when  he  discussed  his  character  with  Alice  at 
home  of  an  evening  he  said  a  good  many  hard 
and  bitter  things,  for  they  talked  of  him  inces 
santly;  he  was  the  one  topic  in  the  homes  of  all 
the  men  in  the  office;  he  lowered  the  tone  of  their 
lives,  and  brought  servility  and  fear  into  the  lives 


80          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

of  their  wives  and  children.  That  John  escaped 
insult,  he  attributed  to  luck;  apparently  there  was 
no  protection  in  the  fact  that  he  was  earnest  and 
conscientious.  Gordon,  the  old  bookkeeper,  who 
had  been  with  the  firm  forty  years,  was  a  model 
of  industry  and  exactness,  yet  he  was  in  hot  water 
pretty  much  all  the  time  when  he  was  not  in  deep 
water  and  trembling  for  his  position. 

To  be  sure  Haviland  had  his  own  disappoint 
ments  and  his  nerves  were  on  edge  most  of  the 
time.  He  was  greedy  of  gain,  but  more  greedy  of 
fame, — or  the  irresponsible  notoriety  which  he 
mistook  for  fame,  and  which  was  perhaps  sweeter 
to  him  than  a  responsible  fame  would  have  been 
with  its  obligations,  and  he  hated  the  directors, 
who  seemed  in  league  to  limit  him  to  a  conserva 
tive  business  with  reasonable  profits. 

John,  whose  ancestors  since  the  days  of  the 
Norman  Conquest  had  taken  a  hand  in  almost 
every  war  in  Anglo-Saxon  history,  resolved  that 
if  Haviland  ever  "went  for  him"  as  he  did  for  the 
rest,  he  would  let  him  have  the  ink-well  or  some 
similarly  convenient  missile,  but  he  was  more  and 
more  grateful  as  the  days  ran  into  weeks  and  the 
weeks  into  months,  that  nothing  unpleasant  oc 
curred  involving  him. 

He  had  been  with  Bliss,  Haviland  and  Company 
almost  a  year  when  one  afternoon,  Gordon,  the 
bookkeeper,  came  out  of  the  private  office  a  dull 
tallowy  white,  with  blue-drawn  lips.  He  stopped 
beside  John's  desk. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS       81 

"Mr.  Haviland  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"You  are  to  go  in  now, — right  away." 

As  John  turned  to  obey  the  summons  he  ran 
over  uneasily  all  those  matters  that  had  gone 
wrong  in  his  department  and  for  which  he  could 
possibly  be  held  responsible.  As  he  raiseH  his 
hand  to  knock  on  the  door  of  the  private  office 
he  decided  that  happen  what  might  he  could  not 
afford  to  lose  his  temper.  He  reached  this  deci 
sion  quickly,  and  when  he  heard  Haviland  call 
"Come  in,"  pushed  open  the  door.  Haviland  was 
seated  at  his  desk,  and  the  expression  on  his  face 
was  not  reassuring. 

"Oh!  It's  you,  Norton;  take  a  seat, — I  want 
to  speak  to  you." 

John  closed  the  door  and  at  a  sign  from  Havi 
land  sat  down  in  the  chair  at  the  managing  direct 
or's  elbow,  which  one  of  the  clerks  who  retained 
a  sense  of  humor  had  christened  "The  Mourners' 
Bench."  Haviland  swung  round  and  faced  him 
squarely. 

"I  shall  have  to  send  Gordon  away,"  he  said. 
"How  would  you  like  his  place?" 

John  knew  that  the  bookkeeper  received  twen 
ty-five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and  he  drew  in  his 
breath  quickly. 

"You  do  your  work  well,"  Haviland  continued 
graciously,  without  giving  John  a  chance  to  re 
ply.  "I  have  never  had  occasion  to  find  any  fault 
with  you;  of  course,  you  understand  we  shan't 
pay  you  what  we  are  paying  Gordon, — he  has 


82          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

been  with  the  house  forty  years.  It's  a  very  fine 
opening  for  a  young  man,  Norton,  and  I  am  glad 
to  be  able  to  offer  it  to  you.  It  will  mean  an  ad-, 
vance  of  two  hundred  a  year  at  once." 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  feel  I  was  taking  Gordon's 
place — "  John  said. 

The  red  line  of  Haviland's  neck  with  its  heavy 
veins  swelled  out  over  the  top  of  his  collar;  there 
was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  he  said  curtly: 

"You  are  not  taking  Gordon's  place; — he  is  to 
stay  on  until  the  end  of  the  month.  That  will 
give  him  ample  time  to  look  up  another  place." 

"I  doubt  it,"  John  retorted,  unconsciously  im 
itating  his  employer's  tone  and  manner.  "He's 
an  old  man,  Mr.  Haviland,  and  I  don't  think  any 
one  will  care  to  make  an  opening  for  him." 

Haviland  frowned. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that,  Norton, — 
very  sorry,  indeed.  I  shall  advise  him  to  take  a 
less  responsible  position — one  more  suited  to  his 
years,"  expanding  cheerfully,  as  though  his  ad 
vice  would  be  of  incalculable  value  to  Gordon. 
"Will  you  take  the  place?" 

Norton  hesitated.  It  would  have  pleased  him 
to  tell  Haviland  just  what  he  thought  of  him,  but 
he  remembered  Alice  and  said,  "Yes,"  instead, 
adding  grudgingly,  "I  shall  be  glad  to  accept  it." 

"At  twelve  hundred  a  year?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well,  then,— that's  all." 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      83 

As  John  went  back  to  his  desk  he  knew  that 
Gordon's  glance  followed  him  from  the  door  of 
the  private  office.  He  mounted  his  stool  and 
took  up  his  pen. 

The  old  bookkeeper  slunk  over  to  his  side  and 
placed  a  trembling  hand  on  one  corner  of  the 
ledger  above  which  John  was  bending  intently. 

"What  sort  of  a  mood  was  he  in,  Norton, — 
nasty?" 

John  nodded. 

"Did  he  have  anything  to  say  about  me?" 

Without  lifting  his  head  John  nodded  again. 

Gordon  fingered  the  corner  of  the  big  book 
nervously. 

"I  never  got  such  a  calling  down  from  him  be 
fore.  But  then,  you  know,  you've  got  to  stand  his 
temper  if  you  want  to  get  along  with  him,  and 
what's  the  odds, — we're  paid  for  it,  and  it's  all  in 
a  lifetime."  He  studied  John's  face  guardedly. 
"What  did  he  say,  Norton?" 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,"  John  began,  "but  per 
haps  you'd  as  soon  hear  it  from  me  as  from 
him " 

"He  didn't  tell  you  I  must  go,  did  he?  He 
didn't  say  that — I  thought  he  didn't  mean  it " 

"That's  what  he  said." 

Gordon  leaned  heavily  against  the  desk. 

"I  knew  he  was  wanting  to  get  rid  of  me,  but  I 
didn't  think  it  would  come  yet  a  while; — I — I  was 
hoping  I  could  hold  on  a  little  longer.  Why!  I 


84          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

have  been  here  forty  years — I'm  not  fit  for  any 
thing  else!"  Unconsciously  in  his  excitement  he 
raised  his  voice,  and  the  last  word  was  almost  a 
cry.  He  choked  down  his  emotion.  "He'll  get 
his  deserts  one  of  these  days!  A  man  can't  go  on 
forever,  as  he's  gone  on,  walking  over  people,  and 
prosper,  and  he'll  find  it  so!" 

John  stole  a  glance  over  the  room. 

"I  wouldn't  speak  so  loud,"  he  cautioned.  "They 
will  hear  you." 

"I  don't  care!"  fiercely.  "I  don't  care  what 
they  hear!"  but  he  sank  his  voice  to  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "I — it  isn't  right,  Norton, — it  isn't 
right!"  He  paused  an  instant  to  let  his  gaze  wan 
der  about  the  long  bare  room  with  its  rows  of 
desks,  and  a  sudden  mist  came  before  his  eyes. 
"Why!  I  haven't  missed  half  a  dozen  days  since  I 
started  in  here.  Summer  and  winter  every  morn 
ing  at  eight  I've  pulled  off  my  coat  and  hung  it 
with  my  hat  on  that  nail  over  there, — it's  been 
'Gordon's  nail'  for  forty  years!"  Then  he  broke 
down  completely. 

The  office  grew  very  hushed  and  still.  The 
clerks  stopped  in  their  work  and  took  in  the  scene 
with  eager  silent  curiosity. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  they  were  working  away 
again  as  though  nothing  unusual  had  happened. 
Gordon,  at  his  desk,  was  trying  to  add  a  long 
column  of  figures,  while  every  now  and  then 
something  fell  upon  the  pages  of  the  ledger  be- 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      85 

fore  him  that  raised  a  round  blister  or  blurred  the 
ink. 

That  day  marked  the  beginning  of  the  change 
with  John  Norton.  He  felt  that  this  new  position 
of  his  was  held  at  the  expense  of  manhood  and 
self-respect.  This  left  its  mark  on  his  character. 
Alertness  and  energy  seemed  to  leave  him  as  the 
ambition  faded  out  of  his  life.  In  his  despair  he 
became  morbid.  His  was  the  uncertainty  of  a 
man  who  feels  he  has  failed  without  knowing  how 
or  where.  He  told  himself  the  day  was  coming 
to  him  just  as  it  had  come  to  Gordon,  when  his 
services  would  no  longer  be  of  value  to  any  one, — 
his  little  contribution  to  the  world's  progress  hav 
ing  been  made  he  would  be  discarded,  he  would 
drift  farther  and  farther  out  of  the  moving  current 
of  things  until  he  finally  reached  the  great  Sar 
gasso  of  human  energy  where  the  wrecks  stay, 
a  derelict. 

At  first  he  had  preferred  to  look  upon  the  posi 
tion  as  temporary,  as  a  convenience  to  serve  his 
end  until  a  better  offered,  but  nothing  better  did 
offer  and  he  finally  lost  all  idea  of  another  place. 
His  only  fear  was  that  he  might  be  discharged, 
and  he  knew  that  a  week's  idleness  would  be  a 
calamity. 

Try  as  he  would  he  could  not  get  ahead.  It 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  managed  to  keep  up  his 
life  insurance,  which  was  the  only  provision  he 
was  able  to  make  for  the  future. 


86          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

It  was  probable  that  at  this  time  neither  his 
economies  nor  his  expenditures  were  ordered  with 
any  particular  intelligence  or  to  any  practical 
ends.  His  ability  was  that  of  the  average  man 
and  he  sacrificed  himself  to  the  average  opinion. 
It  was  necessary  for  him  to  live  in  a  certain  way; 
his  home  must  be  in  a  respectable  neighborhood, 
his  wife  and  children  must  be  well  dressed.  These 
were  the  essentials. 

Sometimes  he  talked  with  Alice  of  giving  up 
the  struggle.  He  had  a  vague  notion  that  if  he 
went  into  the  country,  where  he  could  work  with 
his  hands,  he  would  do  better  and  get  larger  re 
turns  for  his  toil.  But  it  always  ended  in  talk; 
nothing  ever  came  of  it;  his  point  of  view  was 
the  extreme  one.  He  felt  that  he  belonged  to 
another  race  and  time,  with  different  ideals,  differ 
ent  capacities  and  different  aptitudes.  The  men 
he  knew  were  all  of  the  same  sort.  With  the 
brawn  of  pioneers  and  soldiers  wasting  in  their 
arms  they  were  clutching  pens  pathetically  enough, 
or  selling  silks  and  millinery  when  they  had  much 
rather  be  felling  trees.  But  the  trees  are  all  felled, 
the  world's  work  as  far  as  it  can  be  clone  by  hand 
is  finished,  and  these  primitive  natures,  who  in  a 
wilderness  would  have  been  all  sufficient  to  them 
selves,  retain  but  a  doubtful  utility. 

Alice  never  really  knew  how  difficult  it  was  for 
him, — he  kept  that  to  himself. 

He  was  held  accountable  for  all  the  laxity  on 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      87 

the  part  of  those  under  him,  and  the  office  force 
was  habitually  indifferent,  as  men  are  apt  to  be 
who  feel  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  zeal 
and  conscientiousness.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  that 
he  did  not  smart  beneath  the  weight  of  Havi- 
land's  displeasure,  nor  could  he  rid  himself  of  the 
terrible  and  degrading  fear  he  had  of  the  man. 
He  would  stand  in  dogged  silence — abject,  bruised 
and  shaken — whenever  Haviland  chose  to  break 
the  ready  vials  of  wrath  upon  him.  Haviland 
was  not  always  disagreeable,  however;  he  had  his 
genial  moments  when  it  was  wise  to  enter  heartily 
into  the  spirit  of  his  peculiar  humor. 

Norton's  position  was  nominally  at  least,  con 
fidential.  Once  each  year  he  made  out  a  state 
ment  that  found  its  way  before  the  directors  at 
their  annual  meeting.  In  preparing  this  state 
ment  it  was  necessary  to  go  over  the  stocks, 
bonds  and  securities  in  the  vaults  with  Haviland; 
then  together  they  counted  the  cash  in  hand  and 
John  signed  his  name  to  the  report,  a  formality 
having  a  certain  significance  in  the  mind  of  one 
of  the  directors  at  least,  for  he  turned  in  his  first 
statement  unsigned,  and  had  been  called  before 
the  directors.  Mr.  Bliss,  the  largest  individual 
stockholder  in  the  company,  had  gravely  interro 
gated  him  regarding  the  matter.  The  explana 
tion  was  simple  enough.  Haviland  had  not  told 
him  to  sign  the  statement.  Upon  learning  this, 
Mr.  Bliss  had  suggested  that  the  managing  di- 


88          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

rector  immediately  inform  the  bookkeeper  as  to 
the  exact  nature  of  his  duties.  John  was  greatly 
impressed  by  the  incident,  so  much  so  that  after 
ward,  when  making  out  the  annual  statement,  he 
was  always  troubled  by  an  exaggerated  sense  of 
its  importance. 

He  had  been  with  Bliss,  Haviland  and  Company 
three  years,  when  he  made  a  little  discovery. 
Haviland  was  speculating, — in  direct  violation  of 
his  agreement  with  the  company. 

John  had  been  in  possession  of  this  secret  about 
five  weeks  when  one  morning  he  was  summoned 
into  the  private  office.  He  found  Haviland  look 
ing  rather  disturbed. 

"We'll  have  to  be  getting  at  our  annual  report," 
the  managing  director  said.  "Let  me  see, — this 
is  the  eighth  of  the  month;  I  suppose  you  already 
have  it  well  along." 

"I've  been  at  work  on  the  books  for  the  last 
two  weeks." 

"Make  a  full  and  complete  showing,  Norton." 

"Yes,  sir." 

At  eleven  o'clock  Haviland  left  the  office  hur 
riedly  in  response  to  a  telephone  message. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  spruce-looking  youth  with 
a  small  paper  parcel  under  his  arm  walked  into 
the  business  office  and  inquired  for  him.  John 
went  over  to  the  railing  where  he  stood. 

"Mr.  Haviland's  out;  can  I  do  anything  for 
you?" 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS       89 

"I  am  from  Brown  and  Kemper,"  mentioning 
a  well-known  firm  of  brokers.  "I  want  to  leave 
these  bonds  for  Mr.  Haviland."  He  untied  the 
parcel  as  he  spoke.  "Will  you  take  their  numbers 
and  give  me  a  receipt?" 

John  was  too  dazed  to  speak.  Not  only  was 
Haviland  speculating,  but  he  was  speculating  with 
the  funds  of  the  company.  He  was  vainly  endeav 
oring  to  collect  his  scattered  wits  when  Haviland 
came  in,  panting  and  in  hot  haste.  He  gave  the 
broker's  clerk  a  shove  that  sent  him  spinning 
toward  the  wall,  then  with  a  single  furious  ejacu 
lation  he  snatched  up  the  bonds  and  disappeared 
into  the  private  office. 

During  the  next  two  or  three  days  John  in  fancy 
lived  through  all  the  agony  of  an  unsuccessful 
search  for  another  position,  and  at  last  awoke  to 
a  proper  understanding  of  the  case.  Haviland 
was  afraid  to  dismiss  him. 

The  directors'  meeting  was  called  for  the  twen 
ty-ninth,  and  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty- 
fourth,  as  John  was  closing  his  desk,  Haviland 
came  out  of  the  private  office  and  strode  to  his 
side. 

"I  want  you  to  come  up  to  my  house  to-night, 
Norton;  it's  about  that  statement  I  want  to  see 
you.  Can  you  come?" 

John  did  not  look  at  Haviland;  he  felt  em 
barrassed  and  ill  at  ease.  They  had  avoided  each 
other  for  days. 


90          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  am  sorry  to  bother  you,  Norton.  LW.on't  you 
come  up  to  dinner?  I  am  all  alone." 

"No,"  hastily.  "I  guess  I'd  better  not;  my  wife 
will  be  expecting  me." 

"Just  as  you  like.  I  can  look  for  you  about 
eight?" 

"Yes." 

Haviland  moved  away  a  step.  He  was  mopping 
his  face  with  his  handkerchief.  He  seemed  old 
and  broken.  His  aggressive  arrogance  of  man 
ner  had  entirely  deserted  him. 

"Everything  was  all  right  to-day?"  he  inquired 
aimlessly. 

"I  think  so." 

"Then  I'll  look  for  you  at  eight."  Haviland 
turned  and  went  slowly  into  the  private  office. 
As  John  passed  the  door  on  his  way  out  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  managing  director;  he  was  sit 
ting  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  desk  and  his 
chin  sunk  in  his  hands. 

When  John  mounted  the  steps  at  Haviland's 
that  night,  it  was  with  a  good  deal  of  reluctance. 
The  butler  admitted  him  and  showed  him  into  the 
library,  where  Haviland  welcomed  him  with  an 
effusive  cordiality  that  only  served  to  increase  his 
desire  to  escape  from  the  house.  A  table  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  room,  with  cigars  and  decan 
ters  on  it.  Haviland  had  evidently  been  drink 
ing;  his  face  was  flushed  and  his  manner  confident. 
John  put  aside  the  glass  he  pushed  toward  him. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      91 

"I'll  have  a  cigar,  if  you  don't  mind — thanks." 

Haviland  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  how's  the  statement  coming  on?  The 
business  makes  a  pretty  good  showing,  eh?'J 

"It's  been  the  biggest  year  in  the  history  of 
the  house." 

"If  they'd  let  me  alone,  I'd  make  Bliss,  Havi 
land  and  Company  a  power,"  with  something  of 
his  old  self-assertiveness.  "But  they  don't  see 
it  my  way." 

John  looked  his  assent.  Haviland  filled  his 
glass. 

"You  won't  join  me?" 

"No,  I  thank  you." 

"I  am  going  to  have  your  salary  put  back  to 
the  old  figure,  Norton.  I'll  have  to  get  the  di 
rectors'  consent,  but  you  can  tell  your  wife  when 
you  go  home  that  you  have  a  raise  to  twenty-five 
hundred."  He  turned  expectantly  toward  his 
bookkeeper;  he  was  counting  on  enthusiasm — 
gratitude,  even,  but  he  saw  no  trace  of  either  on 
John's  face. 

Their  relations  had  undergone  a  great  change. 
Haviland  was  no  longer  the  despot  John  had 
known  in  the  private  office;  he  no  longer  inspired 
fear;  he  never  could  again.  He  was  simply  a  red- 
faced  vulgar  man  who  was  seeking  to  bribe  an 
employee  to  betray  his  business  associates.  John 
had  brooded  over  the  possibilities  of  this  inter 
view;  he  had  thought  of  the  sarcasms  he  would 


92  THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

hurl  in  his  tyrant's  face — but  the  tyrant  was  no 
longer  a  tyrant,  he  was  only  a  guilty  man,  more 
or  less  pathetic  to  look  upon,  as  guilty  men  are 
apt  to  be  when  retribution  is  in  sight. 

To  cover  his  losses,  Haviland  had  taken  almost 
half  a  million  dollars  from  the  company,  conse 
quently  the  necessity  for  a  statement  that  would 
satisfy  the  directors  and  leave  no  room  for  in 
convenient  questioning  was  imperative.  Provided 
it  was  forthcoming,  it  would  give  him  a  year  in 
which  to  return  all  the  securities  he  had  hypothe 
cated.  Personally,  he  felt  quite  safe;  he  had  gone 
deep  enough  into  the  funds  of  the  company  while 
he  was  about  it  to  protect  himself  effectually, — 
at  the  worst  he  could  always  effect  a  compromise. 
He  could  turn  over  his  property;  carefully  han 
dled,  it  would  easily  reach  half  a  million,  and  there 
was  his  stock  in  the  concern  besides.  But  he  had 
no  notion  of  compromising  if  he  could  help  it,  for 
what  would  he  do  without  money,  his  credit  and 
reputation  gone !  He  grew  sick.  It  all  rested 
with  the  bookkeeper,  who  promised  to  be  difficult 
to  manipulate.  He  silently  added  five  thousand 
dollars  to  the  sum  he  was  willing  to  offer  as  a 
last  recourse.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

"Now  about  that  report,  Norton;  I  suppose 
you  will  want  my  help  to-morrow." 

John  looked  distressed. 

Haviland  hitched  his  chair  nearer  and  dropped 
his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS       93 

"You  know  how  busy  I  am, — you  are  ready  to 
sign  that  statement — what's  the  use — " 

With  a  calmness  he  was  conscious  he  did  not 
feel,  John  took  the  cigar  from  between  his  teeth 
and  said  slowly: 

"I  am  not  so  sure  about  that." 

Haviland  looked  at  him  blankly  for  a  moment. 
He  laughed  shortly,  and  remarked:  "I  guess  you 
are  not  such  a  fool,  after  all." 

He  drew  his  check  book  from  his  pocket,  took 
a  pen  from  the  table,  and  dipping  it  in  the  ink, 
dated  a  check  and  signed  it. 

"For  what  amount  shall  I  make  it,  Norton?" 
The  pen  hovered  above  the  blank  space  on  the 
check. 

John  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  doggedly.  "I  can't  do  it, — I'm  sorry  for 
you,  but  I  can't.  What's  the  use? — it  will  be 
about  as  hard  on  me  as  on  you, — I'll  lose  my 
place." 

But  Haviland  was  not  heeding  him. 

"If  I  make  it  ten  thousand,  will  that  satisfy 
you?" 

It  was  John's  turn  to  look  blank.  Ten  thou 
sand  dollars!  He  turned  faint  and  giddy;  he  tried 
to  speak;  he  saw  the  pen  circle  and  then  sweep 
down  toward  the  check.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
caught  Haviland  by  the  wrist. 

"No,  don't!"  he  gasped. 

"Shall  I  make  it  fifteen  thousand?" 


94          THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"No."  And  this  time  there  was  no  irresolu 
tion. 

Haviland  groaned  aloud;  the  sweat  clung  in 
beads  to  his  forehead.  He  rose  from  his  chair. 

"I  am  offering  you  fifteen  thousand  dollars  for 
the  stroke  of  your  pen, — if  it  is  not  enough,  name 
your  own  price,"  he  added  hoarsely. 

"I  can't  do  it." 

"Do  you  mean  you  won't  come  to  terms?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?"     His  face  was  livid. 

"Because  I  can't  do  what  you  ask  of  me, — I 
can't  shield  you,  and  I  can't  take  your  money. 
I  don't  suppose  you  understand, — it  wouldn't  do 
me  any  good — I  should  feel  as  though  I  had 
robbed  some  one — I  could  never  tell  my  wife  how 
I  got  the  money;  there  would  always  be  that  be 
tween  us.  I'll  finish  what  I  can  of  the  statement 
to-morrow  and  hand  in  my  resignation." 

As  he  spoke  he  came  slowly  to  his  feet. 

Haviland  only  half  heard  what  John  said.  He 
was  standing  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  table, 
staring  straight  ahead  into  vacancy.  The  whole 
world  would  know !  This  stupidly  honest  fool, 
whose  intelligence  he  had  always  put  at  zero,  was 
the  Nemesis  in  his  path.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  was  cowed.  He  turned  to  John  with 
a  dumb  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"For  God's  sake,  Norton — do  you  realize  what 
this  means?"  he  cried  brokenly.  "You  must  stand 


THE  BLOOD  OE  HIS  ANCESTORS      95 

by  me;  I'll  come  out  all  right!  Don't  go  over 
to  them — they  will  never  do  for  you  what  I  will!" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  them,  or  what  they'll  do." 

"No!"  with  something  of  his  old  explosive  man 
ner.  "You  are  looking  to  them  for  your  reward 
when  you  have  betrayed  me!  But  what  will  it 
amount  to?  A  few  hundred  a  year,  perhaps!" 

"That  was  what  you  offered  me  first." 

"Oh,  you'll  get  it  from  them!  It's  easy  enough 
to  see  what  your  game  is !"  Then,  as  a  last 
appeal,  he  cried:  "You  know  nothing  positively. 
All  I  ask  you  to  do  is  to  take  your  money — the 
money  I  am  willing  to  give  you,  no  matter  why — 
and  clear  out — go  where  you  choose — do  as  you 
please — " 

But  John  moved  toward  the  door,  and  Haviland 
read  in  the  tense  set  lines  of  his  face  his  decision. 

John  went  down  the  steps  slowly,  like  a  man 
in  a  daze.  It  had  been  the  most  dramatic  mo 
ment  of  his  life;  it  left  him  confused  and  stunned, 
and  with  an  inexplicable  fear  of  the  future. 

Soon  this  fear  took  a  definite  form.  He  quick 
ened  his  pace.  He  must  hurry  home  and  tell 
Alice  the  whole  circumstance  and  ask  her  advice. 
Perhaps  he  had  already  committed  himself  by  go 
ing  to  see  Haviland!  He  revolved  the  matter  in 
his  mind.  What  could  Haviland  do — would  he 
dare  accuse  him?  He  could  run  no  risks — he 
owed  it  to  Alice  and  the  children  to  take  every 
precaution.  But  how  was  he  to  protect  himself? 


96          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

John  turned  sharply,  with  a  new  idea.  Above  all 
other  claims,  above  the  consideration  of  self,  he 
owed  a  duty  to  the  stockholders.  They  had  a 
right  to  know  what  he  knew;  he  could  not  shield 
Haviland  with  his  silence.  He  must  see  one  of 
the  directors.  He  paused  uncertainly  on  a  street 
corner.  To  whom  should  he  go?  At  the  board 
meetings  he  had  been  impressed  with  Mr.  Bliss' 
kindliness  of  manner;  he  would  go  to  him  rather 
than  to  any  of  the  others,  and  tell  him  what  he 
knew  of  the  situation,  and  resign.  He  was  sick 
of  the  whole  business  and  felt  himself  unequal 
to  it.  He  glanced  around,  hoping  he  might  see  a 
belated  cab,  but  the  street  was  silent  and  deserted. 
It  was  three  o'clock  when  he  reached  Mr. 
Bliss'.  Four  times  he  halted  doubtfully  before 
the  door;  four  times  he  felt  his  courage  ebb  and 
flow,  and  four  times  he  wandered  aimlessly  down 
the  block.  The  fifth  time  he  mounted  the  steps; 
there  was  a  momentary  irresolution,  and  then  he 
rang  the  bell  with  a  firm  hand.  He  felt  like  a 
criminal,  a  conspirator,  as  he  stood  there,  for, 
after  all,  Haviland  had  his  good  points — only  one 
would  never  have  supposed  it  merely  from  asso 
ciating  with  him.  He  was  on  the  point  of  aban 
doning  his  project,  when  the  sickening  fear  re 
turned  that  in  some  way  he  might  be  implicated. 
He  thought  of  Alice  and  the  children,  and  set  his 
lips  in  grim  determination;  he  dared  not  do  less 
than  protect  himself.  At  last  a  sleepy  half- 
dressed  footman  opened  the  door. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      97 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  crossly. 

"I  must  see  Mr.  Bliss,"  and  John  pushed  past 
him  into  the  hall. 

"Come  in  the  morning." 

"I  must  see  him  now." 

"Well,  you  can't!     He's  in  bed." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Bliss  himself  appeared  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  dimly  visible  in  a  long  white 
sexless  garment. 

"What  is  it,  Martin?"  he  asked.     "A  telegram?" 

"It's  I,  Mr.  Bliss, — Norton — the  bookkeeper 
from  Bliss,  Haviland  and  Company.  I  must  see 
you!  It's  a  matter  of  the  utmost  importance," 
he  said  earnestly. 

"Martin,  light  the  gas  in  the  library.  I'll  be 
down  in  a  moment,  Mr.  Norton." 

Ten  minutes  later  he  joined  John  down-stairs  in 
the  library. 

"Now,  what  is  it,  Mr.  Norton?"  he  asked  cheer 
fully. 

"It's  about  the  directors'  statement,"  said  John 
with  a  troubled  air. 

"Well?"  his  companion  interrogated,  while  he 
bent  upon  the  young  man  a  shrewd  glance.  He 
wondered  if  the  bookkeeper  had  been  purloining 
the  funds  of  the  company. 

"I  have  just  come  from  Mr.  Haviland,"  John 
explained.  "I  want  to  resign.  He  expects  me  to 
make  up  the  statement  without  going  over  the 
securities.  He  has  offered  me  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  for  the  kind  of  a  statement  he  wants." 


98          THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

He  paused  uncertainly,  and  then  went  on  hur 
riedly:  "Last  week  securities  to  the  value  of  thir 
ty  thousand  dollars,  which  I  supposed  were  in  the 
safe  and  which  should  have  been  there,  were  re 
turned  from  a  broker's  office.  Mr.  Haviland  has 
been  speculating.  I  have  known  this  for  some 
time,  but  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  with  the 
funds  of  the  company  until  these  securities  were 
handed  me  by  mistake." 

"You  are  quite  sure  of  what  you  say,  Norton?" 
the  director  asked.  "These  are  very  grave  charg 
es  you  are  making." 

"I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Bliss.  I  suppose  he  ex 
pects  to  return  every  dollar  he  has  taken,"  John 
added.  It  was  a  comfort  to  be  able  to  say  a  good 
word  for  Haviland. 

"No  doubt, — every  man  who  speculates  with 
money  not  his  own  intends  to  do  that.  Haviland 
will  be  called  on  to  make  good  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  if  he  can't — why — "  The  pause 
was  eloquent.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then 
he  said:  "Tell  me  as  nearly  as  you  can  just  what 
passed  between  you  to-night." 

Slowly  and  carefully  John  gave  the  substance 
of  his  interview  with  Haviland,  while  Mr.  Bliss 
watched  him  narrowly. 

"And  you  want  to  resign,  Norton?"  he  asked 
at  length. 

"Yes." 

Bliss  laughed  shortly. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS      99 

"Why  don't  you  ask  for  an  increase  of  salary, 
— you'll  be  more  apt  to  get  that." 

"I  haven't  told  you  what  I  have  with  any  hope 
of  that  sort,  Mr.  Bliss,"  said  John  a  little  stiffly. 

"No — of  course  not.  But  put  the  notion  that 
you  are  to  resign  out  of  your  head.  More  likely 
you'll  be  asked  to  help  reorganize  the  company 
under  my  direction, — for  Bliss,  Haviland  and  Com 
pany  can't  go  under,  no  matter  what  ducks  and 
drakes  Haviland  has  made  of  our  money." 

John  came  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"I  must  go  home  to  my  wife  now,"  he  said, 
"she  will  be  wondering  what  has  kept  me  so  late." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Bliss.  "I'll  go  with 
you.  Let  me  call  a  cab,"  and  he  summoned  the 
footman. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  John.  "But  is 
there  any  reason  for  it?" 

"It's  just  as  well.  We  must  see  the  directors 
before  nine  o'clock." 

As  John  leaned  back  in  his  seat  in  the  cab,  Bliss 
said  kindly: 

"You  look  worn  out,  Norton." 

"I  am  tired,"  he  admitted;  but  beyond  his  fa 
tigue  and  weariness  he  was  feeling  a  sense  of 
peace,  security  and  hope.  His  old  ambition,  long 
dead,  as  he  told  himself,  stirred  within  him.  After 
all, — after  all  the  waiting  and  doubt  and  fear,  suc 
cess  had  come  at  last  when  he  least  expected  it. 

The  cab  drew  up  before  the  dingy  flat-house 


100        THE  HAND'  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

where  he  lived,  and  John  sprang  lightly  to  the 
pavement.  They  entered  the  building.  It  was 
still  quite  dark  in  the  narrow  halls,  but  as  they 
came  to  the  landing  before  his  own  door  John 
gave  a  start.  Two  men  were  standing  there;  one 
was  Haviland,  and  the  other  a  stranger.  Over 
their  shoulders  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Alice's 
white  scared  face.  Hearing  his  steps,  Haviland 
turned  with  a  hungry  wolfish  look. 

'This  is  the  man,"  he  said  shortly.  "Arrest 
him." 

The  stranger  moved  forward,  but  Bliss,  coming 
slowly  up  the  dark  stairs,  said  gently: 

"It's  too  late.  It's  no  use — I  wouldn't  do 
that!" 

He  took  the  warrant  from  the  detective's  hand 
and  tore  it  into  long  strips,  while  he  and  Haviland 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED 

!  I  beg  your  pardon,"  some  one  said 
politely  from  before  me  in  the  darkness. 

This  I  thought  was  remarkably  handsome,  as 
I  must  have  all  but  knocked  the  speaker  off  his 
feet. 

Then,  in  an  instant,  I  was  wondering  who  had 
spoken. 

If  it  were  Jackson  he  would  have  said — I  knew, 
for  I  had  heard  him  more  than  once  on  occasions 
when  I  was  endeavoring  to  mount  the  narrow 
stairs  at  the  identical  moment  he  was  trying  to 
descend  them — "Get  out  of  the  way,  you  beast! 
What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  walking  all 
over  me?" 

Therefore,  being  vastly  amazed  at  the  polite 
ness  emanating  from  the  blackness  in  front  of 
me,  I  put  up  my  hand  to  find  the  gas-jet — we 
were  on  the  second-floor  landing — and  having 
found  it,  fumbled  in  my  pocket  for  a  match  and 
lighted  the  gas. 

This  enabled  me  to  see  who  had  ventured 
to  introduce  civility  into  the  atmosphere  of  mild 
ruffianism  that  prevailed  among  the  outcasts  at 
Mrs.  Tauton's. 

Standing  jammed  rather  close  against  the  wall, 
101 


102        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

where  he  had  evidently  considered  it  safe  and 
expedient  to  withdraw  in  view  of  my  hurried 
ascent  of  the  steps,  was  a  young  man  with  a  round 
boyish  face. 

"I  really  beg  your  pardon,"  he  repeated.  I  was 
so  astonished  at  his  continued  politeness  that, 
with  the  mistaken  intention  of  turning  on  the  gas 
still  farther,  I  turned  it  out  altogether,  and  we 
were  a  part  of  the  surrounding  gloom  again. 
But  in  the  momentary  brightness  lent  by  the 
flickering  flame  I  saw  Gavan  for  the  first  time. 

From  this  not  entirely  favorable  beginning  there 
came  about  a  speaking  acquaintance  that  soon 
ripened  into  friendship. 

I  was  a  clerk  in  a  down-town  ofHce,  and  had 
by  a  series  of  misfortunes  gravitated  from  the  out 
skirts  of  cheap  respectability  to  the  dingy  apart 
ments  that  Mrs.  Tauton  kept  for  the  exclusive  use 
of  single  gentlemen  of  uniformly  large  hopes  and 
small  means,  and  I  took  my  meals — they  had  a 
marked  tendency  to  cast  a  cloud  over  any  sunni- 
ness  of  temper  I  might  have  originally  possessed 
— with  wretches  of  my  kind  at  the  same  low- 
priced  resort  just  around  the  corner. 

In  after  years  some  of  us  will  remember  the 
dyspepsia,  there  acquired,  particularly  young 
iTompkins,  who  ruined  a  fine  constitution  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  subsist  on  a  diet  of  pie  inter 
spersed  with  milk. 

Tompkins  subsequently  made  a  million  or  two 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED  103 

by  a  singularly  soulless  operation  in  railway 
shares.  I  have  never  blamed  him  for  his  con- 
sciousless  greed,  as  I  attribute  it  to  the  food  his 
early  poverty  compelled  him  to  live  on  in  the 
effort  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 

I  simply  think  he  failed  in  his  object. 

It  was  on  the  steps  at  Mrs.  Tauton's  that  I 
first  met  Gavan.  It  was  not  long  until  he  gave 
me  his  complete  confidence  and  I  was  permitted 
to  know  his  aims  and  ambitions. 

He  desired  to  write  plays  and  to  dispose  of 
those  he  had  already  written. 

It  soon  became  his  custom  to  make  nightly  re 
ports  to  me,  giving  me  detailed  accounts  of  his 
doings,  and  I  came  to  know  what  actor  or  man 
ager  had  promised  to  read  his  work. 

His  appearance  was  so  youthful,  I  do  not  ques 
tion  but  that  it  condemned  him  unheard  in  the 
minds  of  most.  I  think  it  prevented  his  being 
taken  seriously. 

When  the  people  he  wished  to  reach  were  kind 
and  considerate,  it  was  because  they  were  amused 
and  regarded  the  whole  thing  as  a  joke. 

In  any  event  his  plays  were  being  returned  to 
him  with  almost  every  mail,  accompanied  by  let 
ters  more  or  less  encouraging,  as  they  reflected 
various  degrees  of  kindliness  on  the  writer's  part. 

I  had  not  known  him  for  many  months  before 
I  was  aware  of  a  change.  His  face  wore  an 
anxious  look,  but  he  retained  his  cheerfulness, 


104        THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

which  was,  however,  more  a  habit  than  a  condi 
tion  of  thought.  I  knew  that  he  was  wretchedly 
lonely  and  that  disappointment  came  to  end  each 
hope  he  dared  indulge  in. 

It  was  a  mighty  step  from  the  sleepy  little 
southern  town  where  he  had  lived,  to  New  York, 
with  its  supreme  indifference  to  so  small  a  unit 
in  the  struggling  mass. 

With  his  grave  earnest  eyes,  which  were  almost 
pathetic  in  their  seriousness,  and  the  face,  that 
the  days  of  waiting  had  stamped  with  lines — 
markings  of  the  hand  that  was  empty  for  him — 
he  was  only  one  of  many. 

His  mother  was  an  invalid,  his  father  had  long 
been  dead,  and  they  were  very  poor.  This  bit  of 
information  he  imparted  with  the  utmost  reluct 
ance.  I  guessed  at  it  without  the  telling,  as  no 
one,  unless  there  was  the  grim  incentive  of  press 
ing  poverty,  ever  braved  the  terrors  of  life  at 
Mrs.  Tauton's. 

Little  by  little  he  told  me  of  his  mother,  and 
I  saw  that  love  for  her  was  the  one  strong  pas 
sion  of  his  heart.  She  lived — none  too  happily — 
with  relatives  in  the  town  that  had  been  the 
home  of  his  family  for  a  great  many  generations. 

He  seldom  or  never  spoke  of  what  he  would  do 
for  himself  when  he  should  achieve  success;  it 
was  his  mother  who  was  to  profit  by  it. 

One  night  he  came  into  my  room  and  dropped 
dejectedly  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  that 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED  105. 

answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  chair  when  not  in 
actual  use  as  a  couch. 

"What  is  it,  Gavan?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  much.  Only  my  first  year  in  New 
York  is  about  at  an  end,  and  there  is  no  gain  of 
any  sort  to  show  for  it.  The  whole  thing  has 
been  miserably  discouraging." 

"Why,  Gavan,  you  are  making  important  ac 
quaintances  all  the  time,  who  will  aid  you  on  to 
what  you  want." 

"It  is  deadly  slow.  It's  forever  and  eternally 
to-morrow." 

He  made  a  troubled  little  gesture  with  his 
hand. 

"They  say  my  work  is  good,  that  it  is  emi 
nently  clever — sometimes  even  that  it's  great; 
but  that  is  not  enough,  and  I  try  again.  Try 
to  be  more  like — not  myself — but  some  one  else; 
for  it  seems  they  don't  want  me  on  any  terms. 
I  wonder  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  being 
absolutely  unavailable  in  the  world — being  of  such 
an  odd  size  and  shape  of  both  soul  and  mind  that 
there  is  no  niche  he  can  fill.  Do  you  know,  I 
am  beginning  to  think  it  of  myself,  that  I  don't 
fit — just  don't  fit  anywhere." 

And  he  looked  at  me  questioningly.  I  had 
never  seen  him  so  despondent  before. 

He  must  have  understood  my  thought,  for  he 
continued: 

"I  am  ashamed  to  burden  you  with  my  woes. 


106        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

If  I  were  the  only  one  concerned  it  wouldn't  be 
so  bad, — I  could  stand  it." 

A  wistful  far-away  look  came  into  his  eyes  as 
he  said  softly: 

"But  there's  my  mother.  It's  for  her  I  am 
working  much  more  than  for  myself.  Her  life 
is  so  hard,  with  poverty  and  the  contemptible 
pettiness  of  those  about  her." 

He  turned  from  me  to  hide  the  tears  that  would 
gather  against  his  will. 

"And  there  she  sits,"  his  voice  sank  to  a  whis 
per,  "counting  the  days  till  I  shall  come  and  take 
her  away.  And  what  if  I  never  can, — what  if  I 
end  in  failure !  We  wouldn't  require  much  for 
perfect  happiness,  but  small  as  the  sum  needed 
is,  I  can't  make  it.  I  shan't  stay  here  much 
longer.  I'll  go  home  and  settle  down  at  some 
thing  else." 

"You   wouldn't   give   up   your   work!"    I    cried. 

"I  can't  keep  her  on  the  ragged  side  of  uncer 
tainty.  I'll  go  back;  unless  soon  there  is  a  change 
for  the  better  in  my  prospects."  There  was  an 
abrupt  pause.  His  voice  had  broken  on  the  last 
word. 

For  a  time  we  sat  in  silence,  and  when  he  spoke 
again  it  was  cheerfully  and  of  other  things. 

A  few  days  later  Gavan  left  the  shelter  of  Mrs. 
Tauton's  roof  and  went  farther  down-town,  where 
he  had  rooms  with  an  old  shoemaker  and  his 
wife,  who  were  "just  as  good  and  kind  as  could 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED  107 

be,"  he  informed  me;  and  I  think  they  were,  but 
the  apartments  he  had  quitted  were  palatial  by 
comparison  with  those  he  now  had. 

About  the  same  time  I  made  a  move  in  the 
opposite  direction  toward  my  former  mild  re 
spectability. 

One  Sunday  he  came  to  my  lodgings,  his  face 
radiant.  At  last  a  play  was  accepted.  There 
were  only  a  few  minor  changes  to  be  made;  he 
could  do  them  in  a  week  or  so,  and  then  the  com 
pany  would  begin  to  get  up  in  their  parts. 

"I  shan't  have  to  quit  and  go  home  after  all," 
he  said.  "I've  written  mother  all  about  it.  I'd 
give  a  good  deal  to  be  there  and  enjoy  it  with 
her.  It  would  be  such  fun!  Perhaps  it  isn't 
many  months  off  till  she  can  join  me  here,  and 
then,  old  fellow,  you  are  to  come  and  live  with 
us." 

This  last  was  one  of  his  favorite  ideas  for  the 
future.  When  he  felt  elated  or  particularly  hope 
ful  it  was  always  broached,  and  it  was  character 
istic  of  his  general  goodness  that  he  wished  to 
share  all  he  had,  or  was  to  have,  with  his  friends. 

When  I  saw  him  a  week  later  his  work  was 
progressing  and  the  play  would  surely  go  on  be 
fore  the  season  ended.  But  by  our  next  meeting 
his  hope  had  evidently  moderated,  for  he  looked 
downcast  and  troubled  as  he  explained  the  pro 
duction  had  to  be  deferred.  "They  haven't  the 
money  it  will  take.  A  heavy  outlay  for  scenery 


108        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

is  involved,  you  know.  It  will  go  on  the  first  of 
the  coming  season,  and  that's  about  the  most  I 
can  expect  under  the  circumstances.  In  the  mean 
time  there's  a  lot  of  work  I  wish  to  do,  so  it 
doesn't  much  matter.  I  can  wait,  only" — and 
his  glance  became  tender — "it  will  go  hard  with 
mother.  She  won't  understand  why  it's  not  as  I 
said  it  was  going  to  be." 

Unfortunately,  when  the  manager  returned  from 
his  summer  trip  abroad,  he  brought  with  him 
from  Paris  the  success  of  a  thousand  nights. 

"He  will  do  that  at  once,  and  then  try  mine. 
He  really  prefers  my  work,  but  thinks  that  more 
immediate  profits  are  to  be  expected  from  the 
French  piece,"  Gavan  told  me,  and  this  was  all 
he  had  to  say. 

The  imported  play  had  a  long  run  in  New  York, 
half  the  winter  and  better.  Then  it  was  taken 
on  tour. 

"They  can't  drop  a  sure  thing,"  he  explained 
nervously  when  he  informed  me  of  the  new  ar 
rangement.  "However,  the  very  first  opening 
is  to  belong  to  me;  no  telling  or  guessing  when 
it  will  come,  but  scarcely  until  next  year.  I'll 
have  to  do  what  I  can  meanwhile  to  drag  out 
an  existence.  I  can't  give  up.  I've  done  so  much 
it  would  be  foolish  even  to  think  of  stopping. 
If  there  is  only  a  decent  bit  of  luck  in  the  end, 
a  few  months  will  pay  up  for  the  two  years  of 
misery.  Of  course,  it's  tiresome,  this  everlasting 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED  109 

putting  off,  but  if  I  wait  long  enough  and  don't 
starve,  I  am  sure  to  see  the  play  go  on.  The 
manager  has  said  over  and  over  that  he  wanted 
to  stage  it,  and  I  think  he  does.  It  wouldn't  be 
so  rough  if  I  were  the  only  one  concerned,  but 
there's  my  mother.  I  know  she  is  feeling  it 
keenly,  though  she  tries  not  to  show  it." 

He  was  still  brave,  but  the  deep  secret  joy 
was  gone  from  his  eyes.  He  was  slowly  drifting 
back  to  the  despondency  that  had  marked  the 
last  weeks  of  his  stay  at  Mrs.  Tauton's. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  he  added,  "that  mother  can 
comprehend  how  slow  a  matter  it  is,  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  make  it  clear  to  her." 

How  he  lived  through  the  winter  and  the 
spring  that  followed,  I  never  knew. 

When  summer  came  I  tried  to  induce  him  to 
go  into  the  country  with  me  for  an  outing. 

He  was  profuse  in  his  expressions  of  gratitude, 
but  felt  that  he  must  remain  in  the  city.  The 
season  was  almost  over  and  soon  everybody  would 
be  there.  It  was  his  opportunity. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  he  wound  up  re 
flectively,  "but  I  seem  to  have  a  harder  pull  of 
it  than  most  do.  I  wish  I  didn't  look  so  young. 
Then,  too,  my  work  is  original,  and  I  find  orig 
inality  is  an  offense  to  most  people.  I  can't  do 
clever  trifles." 

No,  his  work  was  not  clever;  I  appreciated 
that.  It  was  only  great. 


110        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

On  my  return  from  the  country  he  met  me 
in  Jersey  City. 

"I  didn't  write  you  about  it,  old  fellow,"  he 
said,  as  we  crossed  on  the  ferry.  "My  time 
comes  in  a  month.  Everything  is  in  shape  for 
the  production — scenery  painted  and  costumes 
made.  I've  hung  around  for  three  years,  but  my 
day  has  come  at  last!" 

He  took  my  congratulations  with  the  gracious- 
ness  that  was  characteristic  of  him. 

"It  isn't  unmitigated  bliss,"  he  remarked.  "I 
have  had  to  all  but  ruin  the  piece  to  get  it  on. 
I  guess  it  will  pass  muster  and  that's  all  I  care 
for  now.  Three  years  such  as  I  have  spent  are 
warranted  to  take  the  pride  out  of  any  man's 
soul." 

Lightly  as  he  spoke,  I  knew  he  was  staking  all 
his  future  on  the  event. 

"Drop  in  for  the  first  night,"  he  said,  as  he  left 
me  at  my  lodgings.  "I  want  your  opinion.  I 
have  great  faith  in  your  judgment,"  he  added  po 
litely. 

I  knew  he  hadn't,  but  he  was  invariably  kind, 
even  at  the  expense  of  truth. 

During  the  month,  the  last  one  of  waiting,  I 
saw  him  frequently.  The  many  interests  relating 
to  the  presentation  went  forward  with  unexpected 
smoothness,  and  there  was  but  one  drop  of  bit 
terness  in  Gavan's  cup.  His  mother  was  unwell. 
He  had  observed  a  decided  change  in  the  tone  of 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED  111 

her  letters,  something  that  was  deeper  than  mere 
sorrow  at  his  absence.  One  of  his  relatives  (for 
like  a  true  Southerner  he  had  a  surpassingly  large 
number  of  them)  had  written  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  come  home  at  his  earliest  possible  convenience. 

When  Gavan  told  me  this,  he  said: 

"And  it's  the  truth;  I  have  been  away  a  long 
while.  Once  the  first  night's  over  with,  I  turn 
my  back  on  New  York.  My  mother  needs  me." 

I  could  see  that  he  was  very  much  exercised 
about  his  mother's  condition. 

"You  know  she  may  be  a  lot  worse  than  they 
say.  I  have  no  idea  that  they  would  go  into 
detail  even  if  it  were  a  serious  matter,  and  mother 
herself  would  be  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  expect  information  of  that  sort  from." 

The  eventful  night  came.  I  was  late,  having 
been  detained  at  my  office,  and  the  first  act  was 
ended  when  I  reached  the  theater,  but  I  was  in 
time  to  see  Gavan  bow  his  thanks  to  those  in 
front  from  the  stage.  This  I  saw  through  the 
blur  of  lights  and  the  mist  that  swam  before  my 
eyes. 

The  curtain  had  gone  down  on  the  last  act 
when  I  made  my  way  around  back  and  joined 
him. 

"Come,"  he  said,  as  I  took  his  hand.  "Come, 
let's  go  home.  I  am  tired — and  I  am  satisfied." 

He  was  silent  until  we  reached  his  door. 

"Come   in, — don't  leave  me  yet." 


112         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

And  I  followed  him  up  to  his  room. 

He  had  again  relapsed  into  silence,  but  I  could 
see  that  he  was  happy.  Finally  he  roused  him 
self  from  his  reverie  to  say: 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  go  to  bed,  do  you? — and 
stay  a  little  longer;  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  It's 
such  a  comfort  to  have  you  here." 

I  said  I  would  stay  all  night  if  he  desired  it. 
I  was  too  excited  to  sleep. 

He  was  soon  in  bed,  and  I  drew  up  a  chair 
close  beside  him. 

Then  he  began  to  talk  of  his  mother,  to  tell 
me  of  what  he  would  do  for  her.  "For  I  fancy 
the  turning  point  is  past,"  he  said.  "I  signed 
contracts  to-night  for  more  work,  and  now  money 
goes  to  bind  the  bargain.  They  are  not  the  bar 
ren  formality  they  were  when  I  put  my  name  to 
the  first  one  two  years  ago.  I'll  go  home  and 
see  how  mother  is  before  I  do  anything  else,  and 
take  a  rest  of  a  month  or  so.  I  can  afford  it,  for 
the  play's  a  big  hit.  There  can  be  no  mistake 
about  it.  Now  that  success  has  come,  somehow 
it's  not  quite  all  I  anticipated.  A  part  of  the  sat 
isfaction  has  been  lost  in  the  struggle,  and  a  part 
of  my  ambition  as  well.  I've  served  my  appren 
ticeship  to  art.  I  have  starved,  hoping  against 
hope,  for  three  years,  and  now  I'll  be  content 
with  the  money  it  will  mean.  After  all,  it  nar 
rows  down  to  this:  We  begin  with  different  aims 
before  we  have  exhausted  ourselves  in  trying  to 
overcome  the  ignorance  and  prejudice  of  others." 


WHEN  WE  HAVE  WAITED  113 

.When  I  left  him  he  was  sleeping  with  his  head 
upon  his  arm.  The  boyish  roundness  seemed  to 
have  returned  to  his  face  and  the  anxious  look 
was  gone.  He  was  as  I  remembered  him  in  the 
old  days  at  Mrs.  Tauton's. 

The  night  was  at  an  end  when  I  went  into 
the  street.  Boys  were  calling  the  morning  pa 
pers  and  the  city  was  wide  awake.  I  made  a 
collection  of  the  various  papers  and  left  them  with 
the  old  shoemaker,  who  was  already  at  work  in 
his  little  basement  shop,  to  give  Gavan  when  he 
should  have  had  out  his  sleep.  Then  I  went  up 
town  to  breakfast  in  my  own  rooms. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  started 
back  to  see  him,  and  as  I  reached  the  house  the 
old  shoemaker  met  me  at  the  street-door.  I  saw 
his  kind  face  was  grave  and  serious,  with  lines  of 
grief  upon  it. 

"Is  he  sick?"  I  asked. 

The  old  man  motioned  me  to  follow  and  with 
out  a  word  we  went  up  the  stairs.  In  the  bare 
desolate  hall  above,  with  its  unpalliated  hideous- 
ness  now  garishly  alight  with  day  and  sun,  stood 
a  policeman,  the  center  of  a  group  of  curious  men 
and  women. 

Still   I    did   not   comprehend. 

I  entered  the  room.  Gavan  was  lying  upon 
the  bed  just  as  I  had  left  him.  In  his  hand  was 
clutched  a  crushed  and  torn  scrap  of  yellow  paper. 

As  I  paused,  looking  stupidly  down  at  the  bed 
and  its  burden,  I  became  dimly  conscious  that 


114        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

the  old  man  was  standing  at  my  side  speaking 
to  me,  telling  me  how  it  had  happened. 

"He  got  a  message  from  home.  His  mother 
died  last  night.  It's  that  he's  holding  so  tight 
in  his  hand.  Poor  lad!  a  power  of  promise  and 
real  goodness  went  out  of  the  world  with  him." 

There  were  dark  stains  upon  the  bed-clothes, 
and  he  lay  in  the  midst  of  the  papers  that  told 
him  of  his  triumph. 


THE  DESERTER 

PRIVATE  AUSTIN  sat  languidly  upon  his  cot 
and  slowly  raised  a  cloud  above  his  head 
from  the  disreputable  black  pipe  firmly  clenched 
between  his  teeth.  His  eyes,  wandering  aim 
lessly,  finally  rested  upon  a  shotgun  leaning 
against  the  opposite  wall, — one  of  two  furnished 
by  a  kind  and  benignant  government  for  the  sole 
and  exclusive  use  of  the  sportively  inclined  mem 
bers  of  Company  A — and  his  vague  unrest  took 
form  in  a  desire  to  spend  the  day  with  that  gun 
upon  the  prairie  in  a  search  for  solitude  and 
game. 

To  gain  this  privilege,  the  consent  of  the  offi 
cer  on  duty  was  indispensable,  and  Private  Austin 
who  had  seen  much  pack-drill  and  who  had  ac 
quired  a  valuable  familiarity  with  the  inside  of 
the  guard-house,  knew  that  this  consent  was  not 
for  him.  However  he  arose,  giving  himself  a 
vigorous  shake,  and  his  attire,  previously  wrinkled 
into  a  thousand  twists  and  creases,  became  the 
undress  uniform  of  a  private  of  remarkably  neat 
appearance. 

Passing  along  the  narrow  gangway  between  the 
long  line  of  cots,  taking  care  in  doing  so  not  to 
awaken  the  sweltering  tossing  figures  slumber- 

115 


116        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ing  uneasily  upon  them,  he  reached  the  door  and 
stepped  out  into  the  open  air. 

For  an  instant  as  he  inhaled  the  fresh  morning 
air  and  gazed  upon  the  blue  hills  rising  from  the 
level  stretch  of  plain,  their  dusky  outlines  now 
tipped  as  with  gold  by  the  sun,  his  own  mean  life 
— his  rough  companions — were  forgotten.  Then 
as  slowly  and  reluctantly  his  eyes  turned  from 
their  distant  point  of  vision  and  roamed  around 
the  circle  of  accustomed  objects, — the  white  frame 
cottages  of  the  officers'  quarters,  the  bleak,  stern, 
uncompromising  walls  of  the  too  familiar  guard 
house,  the  well  beaten  earth  of  the  abhorred  pa 
rade  ground,  the  very  stunted  trees  that  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  graceful  form  and  to  stand  in  stiff 
unbending  ranks  as  though  nature  itself  felt  the 
control  of  a  military  despotism, — he  was  once 
more  a  soldier,  common  and  unclean,  with  an 
unquenchable  thirst  for  beer  and  a  loathing  for 
all  discipline. 

As  he  stood  alone  with  his  disgust,  his  atten 
tion  centered  itself  upon  Lieutenant  Parsons  who 
was  returning  at  breakneck  speed  from  his  morn 
ing  canter.  As  the  lieutenant  drew  near  the  post 
he  reined  in  his  horse.  This  gave  Private  Austin 
an  opportunity  to  approach  and  make  his  petition. 

Lieutenant  Parsons  turned  in  his  saddle  and 
looked  at  the  soldier  in  utter  and  unmitigated 
contempt.  To  the  disciplined  well-trained  West 
Pointer  the  general  conduct  of  Private  Austin 


THE  DESERTER  117 

could  only  be  accounted  for  by  a  moral  turpitude 
and  a  state  of  original  sin  shocking  to  all  well- 
ordered  minds,  and  his  present  highly  audacious 
request  was  but  one  of  those  constitutional  aber 
rations  arising  from  that  condition. 

A  prompt  and  vigorous  expression  of  his  opinion 
was  on  his  tongue's  end,  but  contenting  himself 
with  a  brief  answer  in  the  negative,  half  deadened 
by  the  bugle-call  which  rang  out  at  the  moment, 
he  continued  on  his  way  to  headquarters. 

Private  Austin  followed  with  his  glance  the  fig 
ure  of  his  superior  until  he  had  reached  a  dis 
tance  that  made  comment  safe  and  pleasant,  when 
he  proceeded  to  express  himself  in  such  crisp 
and  belligerent  English  as  only  the  resident  of  a 
military  post  would  be  able  to  appreciate.  He 
continued  as  he  reentered  the  barracks  to  voice 
his  indignation  in  a  fashion  both  edifying  and 
pleasing  to  the  aroused  soldiers.  Then  suddenly 
he  picked  up  a  shotgun  and  made  his  way  to  the 
rear  of  the  room,  heedless  alike  of  the  sergeant's 
sharp  command  to  stop  his  noise  and  fall  in  line 
and  the  wondering  gaze  of  his  fellows.  With  a 
vicious  jerk  he  tossed  open  a  window  and  care 
fully  deposited  the  gun  without,  immediately  fol 
lowing  with  other  government  property,  namely, 
Private  Austin,  of  Company  A. 

As  the  others  emerged  upon  the  open  space 
before  the  barracks,  he  shouldered  his  gun  and 
walked  off  in  a  deliberate  and  unconcerned  man- 


118        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ner,  taking  care,  however,  to  maneuver  a  course 
that  brought  the  barracks  between  himself  and 
the  rapidly  assembling  regiment  upon  the  parade 
ground.  But  the  deliberateness  of  his  march  was 
pure  bravado,  for  no  sooner  had  he  reached  a 
sheltering  cluster  of  trees  that  offered  conceal 
ment  from  the  curious  eyes  of  any  of  his  com 
rades  who  might  be  watching  his  movements, 
than  bending  low  he  started  on  a  swift  run. 

At  last  his  breath  failed  him  and  he  threw  him 
self  down  at  full  length  upon  the  scant  verdure 
of  the  prairie.  And  now  he  thought  for  the  first 
time  of  the  penalty  of  his  act.  There  were  two 
courses  open  to  him:  either  to  obtain  all  the 
pleasure  that  could  be  obtained  from  his  unwonted 
liberty  and  then  return  to  the  post,  there  to  spend 
many  a  day  in  the  guard-house  as  a  consequence  of 
having  been  absent  without  leave;  or  he  might 
attempt  to  make  his  way  across  the  plains  and 
there  lose  himself.  But  this  was  an  almost  im 
possible  project  as  he  knew,  since  the  reward  the 
government  offers  for  the  return  of  each  of  her 
straying  defenders  keeps  the  border  sheriffs  on 
the  alert.  No,  it  would  be  wiser  to  return  and 
face  the  consequences  at  the  post,  than  to  risk 
spending  the  next  five  years  of  his  life  in  the  mili 
tary  prison  at  Leavenworth.  He  would  surrender 
within  the  specified  twelve  hours,  beyond  which 
time  the  comparatively  innocent  "absent  without 
leave"  would  become  the  dreaded  "deserter". 


THE  DESERTER  119 

Having  now  recovered  his  breath  and  his  cus 
tomary  spirits,  which  had  been  rather  damped 
by  his  reflections,  he  started  to  made  a  wide  cir 
cuit  with  the  mingled  determination  of  spilling 
the  blood  of  every  living  thing  that  should  be  so 
unfortunate  as  to  come  within  the  range  of  his 
gun,  and  of  arriving  at  the  post  before  nightfall. 

A  prairie  schooner,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  meager 
oxen  and  driven  by  a  sad-faced  woman,  was  toil 
ing  over  the  sandy  ridges.  A  half-grown  boy, 
barefoot  and  ragged,  led  the  way,  shading  his 
eyes  from  time  to  time  with  his  sunburnt  hands, 
and  gazing  eagerly  on  all  sides  in  a  vain  hope  that 
each  moment  might  bring  to  view  the  longed-for 
haven  of  their  march.  On  the  seat  beside  the 
woman  two  children  crouched,  so  weary  of  it  all 
that  they  seemed  involuntarily  to  avoid  looking 
at  anything  save  their  own  brown  feet.  Within 
the  wagon  among  the  poor  belongings  of  the 
family  was  a  rude  bed  and  on  this  bed  lay  a  man, 
gaunt  and  hollow-cheeked.  By  his  side  a  young 
girl  watched. 

The  man  turned  feebly  toward  her. 

"The  post?"  he  asked  fretfully,  reiterating  the 
question  that  never  left  his  lips.  "Can  you  see 
it  yet?"  There  was  an  age  of  suffering,  endur 
ance  and  longing  in  his  voice. 

"Not  yet,  father,"  replied  the  girl  soothingly. 
"But  we  will  surely  reach  it  before  night." 


120        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"If  we  have  not  already  passed  it,"  said  the 
man.  "It  is  impossible  that  Frank  has  kept  the 
trail." 

"He  has  done  his  best,  father." 

Without  replying  the  man  turned  away,  and  in 
a  few  moments  either  slept  or  had  sunk  into  a 
stupor. 

The  stretch  of  prairie  was  at  last  broken  to 
the  west  by  a  strip  of  timber.  The  oxen  turned 
toward  it  longingly.  Instinct  told  them  that  where 
there  were  trees  there  must  be  water.  Even  the 
stolid  lad  in  front  quickened  his  pace,  and  dis 
appeared  in  the  undergrowth  that  skirted  the 
edge  of  the  grove.  Close  following  came  the 
oxen. 

The  woman's  face  had  not  changed,  but  the 
children's,  before  so  indifferent,  now  seemed  alive 
with  cheerfulness  and  expectation.  Then  sud 
denly  they  heard  the  boy  give  a  shout  of  warn 
ing.  But  all  too  late,  for  like  a  streak  of  gray 
light  a  skulking  coyote  went  flying  past.  The 
report  of  a  gun  sounded,  and  one  of  the  sad-eyed 
oxen  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  bowed  its  knees 
and  then  fell  gently  forward  upon  its  side. 

At  the  sight  of  this  great  calamity  all  else  was 
forgotten.  The  woman  moaned  dismally,  while 
the  girl  looked  over  her  shoulder  so  stupefied 
that  she  paid  no  attention  to  the  sick  man  who 
in  querulous  tones  demanded  the  cause  of  the 
excitement. 


THE  DESERTER  121 

This  was  the  scene  that  presented  itself  to  Private 
Austin's  astonished  gaze,  when,  gun  in  hand,  he 
emerged  from  the  thicket  in  the  hope  of  getting 
another  shot  at  the  coyote.  He  saw  the  dying 
ox,  the  dismayed  faces,  the  tearful  eyes,  and  he 
wished  devoutly  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
that  Private  Austin,  heavily  ironed,  was  again 
within  the  walls  of  the  most  dismal  prison  that 
in  his  varied  life  he  had  ever  known. 

Approaching  slowly  he  spoke  a  few  words  half 
apologetic,  half  sullen.  He  would  have  been  glad 
to  arouse  a  fury,  more  easy  to  meet  than  their 
calm  despair.  Stepping  forward  he  unhitched 
the  remaining  ox,  and  promised  a  prompt  and 
sufficient  recompense  for  their  loss.  The  night 
was  closing  in  upon  them,  the  distance  to  the 
post  was  great,  they  must  make  their  camp  where 
they  were,  and  in  the  morning  he  and  the  boy 
could  go  for  assistance. 

A  busy  man  that  night  was  Private  Austin. 
He  brought  a  smile  to  the  woman's  worn  face, 
he  caused  the  children's  merry  voices  to  ring  out 
in  the  darkness  as  they  drew  round  the  camp-fire. 
His  arms  gently  shifted  the  sick  man  from  his 
hard  bed  in  the  wagon  to  one  of  gathered  leaves 
and  grass  that  was  as  down  to  his  tired  limbs. 
He  made  the  girl  smile  and  blush  and  turn  away, 
only  to  come  again.  But  a  change  came  over 
him  when  all  was  hushed  and  silent,  when  he 
alone  kept  watch  beside  the  smoldering  camp- 


122        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

fire.  Three  times  he  arose  and  strode  off  into  the 
night  with  his  face  toward  the  east,  and  then 
turned  back. 

It  was  well  toward  morning  and  the  boy  Frank 
lay  sleeping  beneath  the  protecting  shelter  of  the 
wagon-bed,  when  a  heavy  hand  was  placed  upon 
his  shoulder  and  he  awoke.  Crimson  streaks  of 
light  told  that  the  day  was  near.  With  a  finger 
on  his  lips  as  a  sign  not  to  disturb  the  others, 
Private  Austin  motioned  the  lad  to  follow  him. 

"A  reward  is  offered  by  the  government  for 
the  return  of  Private  Austin,  deserter,  late  of 
Company  A,"  read  the  placard  nailed  upon  the 
barrack  walls.  "A  reward  is  offered  by  the  gov 
ernment  for  the  return  of  Private  Austin,  deserter, 
late  of  Company  A/'  read  the  telegrams  that  sent 
out  a  thrill  of  greed  through  the  veins  of  half 
a  score  of  sleepy  sheriffs.  "A  reward  is  offered 
by  the  government  for  the  return  of  Private  Aus 
tin,  deserter,  late  of  Company  A,"  read  the  colonel 
in  front  of  the  gathered  regiment.  And  then  a 
strange  thing  happened:  across  the  open  space 
came  Private  Austin,  his  hands  tied  behind  him 
with  his  own  belt,  and  by  his  side  a  half-grown 
boy  with  Private  Austin's  shotgun  held  in  his 
grasp.  To  the  waiting  colonel  came  the  pair. 

"Colonel,  the  boy  took  me.  He  gets  the  re 
ward,"  said  Private  Austin. 


WHAT  REARTON  SAW 

REARTON  dropped  down  in  the  chair  I  pushed 
forward. 

"Can  you  give  me  a  moment  or  two?"  he 
asked. 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  I  answered.  "Just  wait 
till  I  put  my  name  to  this — "  and  I  signed  the 
letter  before  me. 

He  watched  me  fold  and  slip  it  into  an  envelope, 
then  he  said: 

"I    want   your    opinion    on    certain    matters." 

"Come  now,  Rearton,"  I  entreated.  "Let  me 
off  if  it's  to  be  another  talk  on  spiritualism!" 

"Confound  it !  Why  will  you  persist  in  calling 
my  beliefs  by  what  to  me  is  the  most  offensive 
of  names?  I  recognize  the  existence  of  the  super 
natural.  Every  intelligent  man  must." 

"Then,    praise    heaven,    I    am    not    intelligent." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  this.  How  much  more  than 
you  actually  see  would  you  be  willing  to  believe?" 

"A  great  deal  less, — and  even  then  I  question 
not  I'd  be  pretty  well  deceived.  The  evidences 
of  the  senses  are  no  evidences  at  all.  They  are 
a  cheat  ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred.  The 
testimony  of  no  two  witnesses  ever  tallied  ex 
actly,  even  though  they  stood  side  by  side  look 
ing  on  the  same  event." 

123 


124        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"Come,  that's  a  broad  statement,"  he  objected. 

"Of  a  very  general  truth,"  I  supplemented. 
"And  it  holds  good  from  the  crucifixion  down  to 
the  present  day,  whether  the  occasion  was  most 
momentous  or  most  trivial." 

I  was  aware  that  my  friend  was  dabbling  in  the 
occult,  and  if  any  thing  I  could  say  would  throw 
discredit  on  it  I  was  anxious  it  should  not  be  left 
unsaid. 

"Look  here,"  he  continued,  "supposing  I  should 
state  to  you  as  a  fact  susceptible  of  positive  proof, 
that  the  future  can  be  made  visible  to  a  man." 

"Oh,  come!"     I  interposed.     "Let's  drop  this." 

"No,  I  can't."  He  had  become  suddenly  grave. 
"I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  if  I  send  for  you 
during  the  next  week  you  will  respond  to  the 
summons." 

"See  here,  Rearton, — what  folly  are  you  about 
to  engage  in?" 

"My  dear  boy,  it's  not  folly!  If  what  I  expect 
happens,  I  shall  be  able  to  gratify  a  rational  de 
sire  to  read  the  future, — my  own  particularly." 

"When  you  do,"  I  burst  out,  "I  hope  I'll  be 
there  to  see  how  the  thing's  done!" 

"That's  exactly  the  favor  I'm  asking." 

We  sat  silently  looking  at  each  other  for  a 
moment.  I  felt  vaguely  that  my  friend  was  not 
the  man  for  such  experiments.  He  was  far  too 
likely  to  be  the  dupe  of  another's  cunning,  being 
sensitive  almost  to  the  verge  of  weakness,  essen- 


WHAT  REARTON   SAW  125 

tially  a  dreamer  with  all  a  dreamer's  love  of  the 
unreal. 

"What  does  Miss  Kent  say? — does  she  know?" 
I  asked. 

"Miss   Kent   is   quite  willing." 

"Probably  she  agrees  with  me  that  it's  all  a 
pack  of  nonsense." 

"There  you're  mistaken,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Faith, — supreme  faith, — must  be  dominant  in 
her  character  then.  Few  women  would  care  to 
have  the  man  they  expect  to  marry  forestall  time 
in  the  fashion  you  propose." 

"Miss  Kent  is  not  the  ordinary  woman.  Her 
willingness  shows  sublime  faith  in  our  affection." 

"Quite  so, — that  is  if  she  really  thinks  it  pos 
sible." 

"I  assure  you" — and  his  pale  face  flushed — "I 
assure  you  she  shares  my  beliefs  fully.  Why 
shouldn't  the  future  be  as  plain  as  the  past?" 

"Now  see  here,  Rearton,"  I  said,  "I'm  not  es 
pecially  fond  of  argument,  and  if  I  can't  swear  my 
way  through  a  dispute  it  is  rather  apt  to  languish 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  One  thing  I  am  sure 
of, — if  bare  one-half  of  your  good  fortune  was 
mine  I'd  be  amply  satisfied  with  the  present. 
Nothing  so  remote  as  the  future  would  trouble 
me." 

Rearton,  seeing  that  I  was  not  inclined  to  dis 
cuss  the  question  he  had  propounded,  took  his 
leave  of  me. 


126        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

A  day  or  so  later  I  received  a  note  from  him 
requesting  my  immediate  presence  at  his  apart 
ments.  I  hastened  there.  He  opened  the  door 
himself  in  response  to  my  knock  and  I  followed 
him  into  his  room.  I  could  see  he  was  laboring 
under  some  great  excitement.  His  first  words 
were  evidently  intended  to  explain  matters. 

"He  will  be  here  in  a  moment."  He  spoke 
hurriedly  and  in  a  low  voice  as  though  he  feared 
a  listener.  "The  reason  I  sent  for  you  is  because 
of  all  my  friends  I  think  you  are  the  least  likely 
to  be  imposed  on.  I  have  the  uneasy  feeling  that 
many  of  my  investigations  were  not  conducted 
with  absolute  fairness, — an  uncomfortable  sensa 
tion  of  having  been  tricked.  Understand  me,  my 
faith  in  the  great  principle  remains  unaltered,  but 
the  methods  used  in  its  demonstration  have  been 
unworthy." 

I  made  a  gesture  of  ridicule  and  dissent,  and 
he  added: 

"Your  unbelief  and  doubt  are  my  mainstay.  I 
trust  to  you  to  see  that  what  is  to  follow  is  car 
ried  out  in  the  spirit  of  truth  that  prompts  the 
undertaking." 

I  was  about  to  make  a  reply  when  some  one 
said  in  a  voice  of  marvelous  sweetness  and  cul 
ture: 

"If  you  are  ready,  gentlemen." 

I  turned  hastily.  Standing  beside  the  door  that 
gave  access  to  my  friend's  dressing-room  was  a 


WHAT  REARTON   SAW  127 

man  in  a  loose  robe  of  dark  and  curious  fabric. 
Not  the  habit,  but  the  man,  riveted  my  attention. 
I  saw  a  colorless  face  devoid  of  beard  or  mus 
tache,  a  face  incontestably  perfect  as  to  feature  and 
outline,  but  the  very  antithesis  of  handsome.  The 
mouth  was  fine  and  cruel,  the  forehead  serene  and 
broad,  with  wonderful  eyes  that  burned  and 
glowed  with  a  peculiar  lusterless  fire  as  they  met 
mine.  The  whole  effect  was  distinctly  unpleasant. 
The  man  was  of  the  kind  that  one  might  imagine 
murdered  from  love  of  crime  as  an  art,  to  whom 
profit  was  secondary  to  pleasure.  I  instinctively 
knew  that  the  quality  of  his  mind,  though  incom 
parably  acute,  was  debased  and  diseased  far 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  rational,  yet  nothing 
could  be  further  removed  from  insanity  nor  mad 
ness. 

Rearton  said,  "This  is  my  friend,"  placing  his 
hand  on  my  arm  as  he  spoke. 

The  man,  having  advanced  to  the  center  of  the 
room,  and  acknowledged  the  introduction  by  an 
inclination  of  the  head,  said,  "Let  us  begin."  I 
observed  the  same  quality  in  his  speech  that  had 
arrested  my  attention  in  his  face.  Soft  and  sweet 
as  the  tones  of  his  voice  were,  they  were  entirely 
divorced  from  feeling.  It  was  a  soulless  perfec 
tion. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  was  a  table  with 
three  chairs  drawn  about  it.  Rearton  took  the 
one  at  the  head,  and  in  response  to  his  bidding 


128        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

I  seated  myself  at  the  foot.  The  man — medium 
or  whatever  he  might  be — dividing  the  space 
between  us. 

For  a  moment  or  two  I  kept  my  glance  fastened 
upon  him,  then  I  turned  to  Rearton.  A  marked 
change  had  taken  place  in  his  appearance.  He 
had  sunk  down  in  his  chair  in  a  heap  like  a  drunk 
en  man  or  an  imbecile  in  a  period  of  bodily  degen 
eracy  corresponding  to  the  mental.  The  white  of 
his  eyes  showed  through  their  half  opened  lids  a 
dull  lead  color.  His  skin  was  splotched  and  yel 
low.  He  seemed  scarcely  to  breathe.  It  was 
altogether  horrible ! 

As  I  gazed,  slowly  he  straightened  up,  the  lids 
rolled  back,  and  with  a  convulsive  motion — a 
nervous  tremor — he  sat  erect,  staring  at  the  man. 
The  latter  began  to  sway  from  side  to  side,  and 
as  the  needle  follows  the  magnet,  so  Rearton's 
body  moved  in  unison.  He  was  dumbly  obedient. 

All  this  while  I  was  far  from  being  unaffected. 
I  don't  know  that  I  can  better  describe  my  sensa 
tions  than  by  saying  that  flashes  of  cold  coursed 
through  my  veins.  I  had  an  uncomfortable  and 
cowardly  desire  to  turn  and  see  who  was  behind 
me.  This  continued  until  I  was  absolutely  chilled 
and  shivering.  My  head  began  to  swim,  a  sickenn 
ing  nausea  lay  hold  of  me,  and  still  those  wonder 
ful  eyes  against  my  will  and  reason  held  me  spell 
bound.  I  could  not  draw  away  my  own  from 
them.  I  followed  their  search  into  futurity. 


WHAT  REARTON   SAW  129 

At  last,  in  desperation,  placing  my  hands  upon 
the  table,  I  sought  with  the  aid  of  the  support  it 
gave  to  rise.  It  was  all  folly!  I  must  throw  off 
this  influence — it  was  a  cheat — a  swindle  .  .  . 
strange  that  I  should  be  powerless  to  resist. 

Suddenly  as  I  struggled  to  retain  the  mastery 
over  my  senses  a  cry  of  pain  escaped  my  lips.  I 
had  received  a  shock  as  though  the  base  of  my 
brain  had  been  seared  with  a  red-hot  iron.  I 
felt  my  head  go  down  upon  my  breast,  and  then 
another  mind  than  mine  swayed  me. 

Without  any  effort  on  my  part,  uninfluenced 
by  will  or  force  self-expressed,  I  turned  to  Rear- 
ton  ;  and  as  I  looked  at  him  he  grew  indistinct — 
far  removed  and  distant — and  yet  I  knew  that  by 
putting  out  my  hand  I  could  touch  him.  There 
began  to  be  strange  faces  that  peered  on  me  from 
out  the  mist  that  had  fallen  on  us.  They  came 
and  went  like  passing  shadows. 

This  phase  of  my  experience  ceased  abruptly. 
Once  more  I  saw  Rearton,  his  glance  fixed  and 
unwavering,  his  lips  moving  as  if  in  speech.  It  was 
the  vision  of  his  future  that  he  saw,  and  what 
he  saw  was  shown  me. 

I  seemed  ,to  know  that  he  was  married,  and  to 
Miss  Kent.  This  I  knew,  not  as  an  onlooker, 
but  as  his  second  self;  and  yet  in  what  was  to 
follow  I  suffered  simply  as  one  suffers  with  those 
whom  he  loves,  who  bears  a  portion  of  their  grief 
through  sympathy. 


130        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

He  was  living  in  the  rapture  of  his  joy,  and 
obedient  to  his  deep  desire,  her  presence  stole 
from  among  the  shadows  that  surrounded  us  and 
came  so  near  that  she  stood  beside  his  chair.  She 
was  so  beautiful  with  youth  and  innocence  that 
I  heard  him  murmur  her  name  in  an  ecstacy  of 
love  and  tenderness,  putting  forth  his  arms  as 
though  to  take  her  into  his  embrace. 

Vagueness  closed  in,  shutting  out  the  picture, 
but  only  for  an  instant.  It  was  cleared  away,  and 
Rearton  was  seen  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  a  low 
bed.  Hers  was  the  pale  face  on  the  pillow.  My 
first  thought  was  that  she  would  die;  but  it  was 
the  beginning,  not  the  end,  of  life. 

As  the  days  came  that  were  made  manifest  to 
us,  the  story  was  carried  on.  We  saw  the  child 
against  her  breast,  she  softly  singing  it  to  sleep. 
A  thousand  gracious  things  we  beheld  in  those 
glad  days  of  love. 

By  slow  degrees  a  change  came  into  their  lives. 
The  note  of  harmony  that  had  been  struck,  sound 
ed  for  the  last  time,  and  was  silent.  It  was  the 
gradual  decay  of  affection,  but  so  insidious  was 
the  transition — so  covert  the  difference — that 
neither  could  have  said,  "Here  the  evil  started." 
Soon  neglect  mounted  up  and  stood  for  wrong. 
Again  and  again  they  parted,  she  in  tears — he 
angry  and  dissatisfied. 

Staining  the  cheeks  of  Rearton's  real  self  were 
tears,  too.  He  strove  to  speak — to  contradict  the 


WHAT   REARTON   SAW  131 

false  evidence,  to  say  it  should  not  be  as  foretold 
— to  comfort  her,  but  his  lips  refused  him  utter 
ance. 

Slow  growing  came  the  change  until  at  last 
they  had  drifted  far  apart,  each  with  separate  in 
terests;  the  only  bond  between  them,  the  child. 

With  startling  rapidity  the  pictures  flashed  back 
and  forth  in  front  of  me.  She  was  seated  alone 
before  a  window  that  opened  out  upon  a  vine- 
covered  balcony.  The  sweet  odor  of  honeysuckle 
rilled  the  air.  She  was  a  mature  woman  now, — no 
longer  the  girl,  no  longer  the  young  mother,  but 
the  matron  whose  ripened  charms  had  reached 
their  full  perfection.  Yet  in  the  gain  of  years 
and  experience  there  was  plainly  evinced  a  loss  to 
her.  She  had  gained  the  bitter  wisdom  that  hard 
ens  the  heart  and  soul  of  its  possessor. 

A  man  appeared  at  the  window.  He  seemed 
to  speak  her  name,  for  she  arose  and  went  to 
him.  At  first  I  thought  it  might  be  Rearton,  for 
his  head  was  turned  from  me,  but  it  was  not.  It 
was  one  whom  I  had  never  seen.  I  did  not  have 
to  wonder  much  what  brought  him  there.  They 
were  lovers.  By  gesture  and  the  visible  sem 
blance  of  speech  I  knew  that  he  entreated  her  to 
go  with  him.  She  half  yielded,  only  to  hesitate. 
Something  held  her — some  memory — the  thought 
of  some  duty — not  love  for  her  husband.  That 
was  dead, — long  dead. 

At   my  side   the   real   Rearton   sat   with   hands 


132        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

resting  on  the  table,  staring  wildly  into  vacancy. 
Great  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  and 
the  muscles  of  his  throat  were  knotted  as  from 
the  mighty  but  unavailing  effort  he  was  making 
to  speak.  With  merciless  strength  and  cruelty 
he  was  chained  down  to  the  sight. 

He  saw  the  woman  he  adored,  through  his 
neglect  and  indifference,  about  to  cast  away  her 
life.  She  had  all  but  yielded,  when  she  ran  back 
into  the  room  and  paused  beneath  a  picture  that 
hung  on  the  wall.  It  was  of  herself  when  she 
was  a  bride.  She  compared  herself  with  it.  They 
were  the  same  in  look  and  feature, — and  yet  she 
had  lost  so  much !  Standing  on  tiptoe,  with  her 
small  white  hand  she  struck  the  canvas  until  it 
was  torn  and  marred.  She  would  leave  no  record 
of  the  past  to  mock  at  her — to  tell  what  she  had 
been! 

A  few  moments  sufficed  for  the  work  of  de 
struction,  and  she  rejoined  the  man  who  had 
waited  for  her  the  while  by  the  window.  To 
gether  they  were  advancing  toward  it,  when  a 
figure  glided  from  behind  the  curtains  that  closed 
an  inner  door.  It  was  Rearton's  future  self.  A 
polished  bit  of  steel  glittered  in  his  hand.  He 
came  between  them  and  the  balcony. 

Thus  confronted,  the  woman  sank  into  a  chair, 
bowing  her  head  in  her  hands;  but  more  from 
shame  than  fright.  The  two  men  gazed  sternly 
at  each  other.  Slowly,  steadily,  Rearton  raised 


WHAT  REARTON   SAW  133 

the  gleaming  piece  of  metal,  there  was  a  puff  of 
smoke — another — and  another — 

With  the  first  one  the  woman  had  sprung  to 
her  feet  and  darted  forward,  throwing  herself 
before  the  man  she  loved.  With  the  last  puff  of 
smoke  she  slipped  from  his  arms — for  she  had 
sought  a  refuge  there, — falling  swiftly  to  the  floor 
with  a  little  sob  of  mingled  pain  and  relief  that 
compassed  all  contentment,  for  it  was  distinctly 
audible,  stealing  through  the  silence  of  the  unborn 
years.  A  spot  of  purple  darkened  the  whiteness 
of  her  breast. 

Seeing  what  he  had  done,  Rearton  fell  on  his 
knees  beside  her  and  took  the  heavy  head  on  his 
shoulder,  trying  to  call  her  back  to  life  and  love. 
When  he  saw  that  all  hope  was  vain,  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

Once  more  the  shadows  came.  Once  more  the 
faces  filled  the  air,  and  the  scene  had  shifted. 
The  signs  of  unspeakable  suffering  were  stamped 
upon  Rearton's  brow  when  I  again  saw  distinctly. 
He  stood  on  the  deck  of  a  ship,  his  son  at  his 
side.  I  divined  that  he  had  escaped  punishment, 
and  was  seeking  forgetfulness — the  unfound — in 
wanderings  to  the  far  ends  of  the  earth.  Hiding 
in  his  cabin  aboard  the  same  ship,  they  uncon 
scious  of  his  presence,  but  he  conscious  of  theirs, 
was  the  man  who  had  loved  Rearton's  wife.  By 
what  chance  they  were  brought  so  near  was  un 
known  to  me.  For  an  instant  I  observed  the 


134        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

three  and  then  they  were  gone.  Space  swallowed 
them  up,  and  only  the  ocean  lay  climbing  to  the 
moon. 

Then  came  wind  and  storm,  and  the  waters 
throbbed  against  the  night,  beating  its  black  bos 
om;  but  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  showed  both 
sea  and  shore, — the  sea  still  vexed  by  memory 
of  the  gale, — and  a  mighty  stretch  of  sand  that 
rolled  before  the  wind  as  did  the  waves.  The 
sun  rose  red,  and  showed  dark  on  its  crimson  rim 
the  solitary  figure  of  a  man  edging  the  desert. 
It  was  Rearton.  He  was  alone.  I  saw  that  his 
dress  was  torn  and  discolored,  stained  and  wet. 

All  day  long,  beginning  with  the  dawn,  he 
paced  the  shores  of  a  little  land-locked  bay,  never 
taking  his  eyes  from  its  glassy  surface  save  to 
search  among  the  wreckage  that  littered  the 
beach.  All  day  he  came  and  went.  All  day, — 
searching, — always  searching.  Day  gave  place  to 
night,  and  the  day  was  born  again,  and  still  he 
passed  back  and  forth  scanning  the  bay  with  in 
tent  glance  that  sought  no  relief  from  the  hot  re 
flection  of  sky  and  water. 

Finally  thirst  drove  him  inland  to  where  the 
starved  stream,  that  gave  the  greater  part  of  its 
moisture  to  the  dry  and  hungry  earth,  was  un 
tainted  by  the  ocean's  salt.  Across  the  hot  sands 
each  day  at  evening  he  made  his  lonely  pilgrim 
age  for  the  means  whereby  he  might  sustain  life. 

When   the   waters   of  the  bay  were   quiet   and 


WHAT  REARTON   SAW  135 

untroubled,  huge  bubbles  could  be  seen  to  rise 
and  break,  bursting  when  the  air  was  reached. 
Whenever  this  happened,  the  watcher  would  mark 
the  spot  with  his  eye  and  swim  out,  diving  re 
peatedly  as  though  seeking  for  something  that 
lay  in  the  slime  at  the  bottom.  But  on  each 
occasion  he  came  back  empty-handed.  Still  he 
waited,  making  no  effort  to  leave  the  desolation 
of  which  he  had  become  a  part. 

Many  days  passed  in  this  manner.  One  even 
ing  when  he  had  gone  to  the  stream,  a  black  and 
bloated  object  rose  with  a  single  bubble  on  the 
bay.  And  then  one  by  one  up  came  the  dead, 
until  a  hundred  floated  on  the  slack  of  the  tide, 
or  moved  lightly,  influenced  by  the  imperceptible 
current.  They  were  the  bodies  of  men  and 
women,  with  streaming  knotted  hair  to  which  the 
seaweed  clung.  As  the  tide  came  in,  they  drifted 
to  and  fro, — ever  faster  with  its  increasing  flow. 
Each  seemed  to  hurry  in  itself, — a  silly  parody  on 
life  and  haste.  Lashed  by  the  wind,  the  surf  dis 
turbed  the  smoothness  of  their  resting  place. 
Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  As  the  bodies 
followed  back  and  forth,  they  smote  one  against 
the  other,  darting  from  spot  to  spot,  bobbing  up 
and  down,  or  rolling  from  side  to  side.  At  one 
point  when  the  tide  boiled  over  a  sunken  ledge  of 
rocks,  they  had  a  wild  fashion  of  making  the  pass 
so  close  together  that  the  hindmost  would  strike 
those  before  them  with  such  force  in  the  swiften- 


136        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ing  current  that  they  would  leap  their  length  from 
the  water,  or  come  erect,  standing  knee-deep  in 
the  waves  with  much  waving  of  stiffened  arms. 
It  was  the  dead  at  play. 

The  wind  and  the  waves  were  going  down,  sink 
ing  with  the  sun.  Still  the  bodies  kept  up  the 
chase  in  the  swirling  rush  of  the  waters.  The 
moon  came  up.  The  tide  reached  its  fulness  and 
stood  spreading  out  on  the  beach,  and  the  dead 
were  at  rest. 

Rearton  returned  and  saw  the  dark  things  that 
were  black  in  the  shadows  of  the  shore.  He 
waded  in  among  them,  pushing  his  way  through 
the  rotting  mass  that  seemed  to  sob  and  sigh  as 
they  struck  one  another, — for  his  progress  in  their 
midst  created  movement.  Hours  he  searched, 
turning  over  those  that  floated  face  down  that  he 
might  see  their  features  and  miss  none.  All 
through  the  night,  aided  by  the  moon's  rays,  he 
continued  his  ghastly  quest  until  it  was  day. 

He,  himself,  was  changing  rapidly.  The  wild 
light  of  delirium  and  madness  shone  in  his  blood 
shot  eyes.  As  he  thrust  the  drowned  bodies 
from  him,  I  could  see  him  laugh  with  a  foolish 
hanging  of  the  lip  from  which  the  saliva  dripped 
and  frothed. 

At  last  when  he  was  on  the  point  of  abandon 
ing  the  search,  one  body  drifted  out  from  the 
shore  until  it  was  fair  beneath  the  moon,  and  he 
saw,  within  the  circle  of  mildew  that  clung  to 


WHAT  REARTON   SAW  137 

hair  and  garment,  his  son's  face.  A  white  film 
covered  the  open  eyes,  the  flesh  was  blue  and 
horribly  swollen.  Without  hesitation  he  took  the 
hideous  reeking  mass  into  his  arms  and  carried 
it  ashore. 

I  looked  again  to  see  the  waters,  the  moon  and 
all  beneath  the  night  the  bodies  of  the  dead,  but 
they  were  blotted  out.  I  could  see  Rearton  alone 
where  he  had  taken  the  body  back  from  the  beach. 
He  had  placed  it  upon  the  ground  and  covered 
it  with  his  coat.  Not  far  off  he  was  on  his  knees, 
digging  in  the  loose  earth.  This  was  all  I  saw 
in  the  somber  grayness  of  the  dawn.  Skulking 
in  the  gloom  that  foretold  the  day  came  a  shape 
across  the  waste.  It  paused  upon  a  hill  of  sand 
that  the  wind  had  blown  together,  and  with  head 
erect  and  ears  drawn  up,  sniffed  the  air.  Then 
it  followed  the  scent. 

It  came  near  where  Rearton  dug  with  bare 
hands  and  a  fragment  of  plank  from  the  wreck. 
Came  near,  and  squatting  down,  watched  him  for 
a  space  as  he  labored.  Then  with  stealthy  tread 
it  went  forward. 

A  growl  of  greedy  satisfaction  attracted  Rear- 
ton's  notice.  He  looked  up  and  saw  the  hyena 
tearing  at  his  son.  Snatching  up  the  piece  of 
plank  with  which  he  had  been  digging,  he  rushed 
at  it.  Man  and  beast  met  with  a  shock,  and  I 
saw  the  animal  leap  repeatedly  at  Rearton's 
throat,  its  teeth  tearing  and  lacerating  his  face 


138        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

and  throat.  With  the  desperate  strength  born 
of  peril  and  his  madness,  he  wielded  his  weapon 
and  succeeded  in  beating  off  his  furious  antago 
nist.  Then  a  single  blow  dealt  with  savage  fervor 
stretched  it  lifeless  at  his  feet.  Without  stopping 
to  tie  up  his  wounds  he  resumed  his  work  upon 
the  grave. 

Soon  the  hole  was  sufficiently  deep,  and  he 
placed  the  body  in  it  and  covered  it  with  earth. 
To  make  sure  that  the  grave  would  not  be  mo 
lested,  he  brought  what  portions  of  twisted  beams 
he  could  carry  away  from  the  wreckage  that 
strewed  the  beach  and  piled  upon  it  until  a  great 
heap  marked  the  place  of  burial. 

Twice  the  sun  sank,  and  twice  it  made  radiant 
the  heavens  before  the  task  was  completed  to 
his  liking. 

He  had  been  mad,  crazed  by  grief  and  misery, 
before  he  found  the  body  of  his  son.  He  was 
further  poisoned  by  the  wounds  he  had  received, 
and  because  of  them  he  had  gone  mad  as  a  beast 
and  not  as  a  man.  Flakes  of  foam  were  thick  and 
white  upon  his  beard;  he  had  a  frightful  manner 
of  swinging  his  head  from  side  to  side,  snapping 
with  his  teeth  at  whatever  came  within  reach. 

It  was  the  third  day  since  he  had  been  so.  He 
remained  in  the  vicinity  of  the  solitary  grave,  not 
even  leaving  it  to  go  for  water. — that  he  no  longer 
needed.  The  grave  continued  to  hold  a  meaning, 
though  he  was  far  beyond  the  saying  or  the  know- 


WHAT  REARTON  SAW  139 

ing  why  he  stayed.  It  was  blind  obedience  to  an 
impulse  or  an  emotion  that  survived  the  extinc 
tion  of  the  last  spark  of  human  intelligence,  in 
him  quenched  forever. 

His  roving  glance  that  shifted  constantly,  hap 
pened  to  see  a  cloud  of  smoke  that  ascended  from 
a  point  a  mile  or  so  farther  up  the  coast  than 
he  had  yet  gone.  For  a  space  this  wonder  fixed 
his  vacillating  interest.  A  dulled  intelligence 
stirred  within  him.  It  drew  him  in  that  direction. 
He  went  slowly  at  first,  on  hands  and  feet,  then 
standing,  he  hurried  forward  at  a  run  almost. 

On  a  tongue  of  land  that  projected  out  boldly 
into  the  ocean,  a  great  bonfire  had  been  built 
and  set  alight.  As  the  maniac  approached,  he 
saw  the  builder  of  the  fire  where  he  stood  be 
tween  it  and  the  sea,  his  eyes  fastened  upon  a 
passing  ship.  At  first  the  maniac  paid  no  heed 
to  him,  but  walked  around  and  around  the  blazing 
pile.  He  was  unseen,  for  the  man  had  no  thought 
but  for  the  ship  that  drew  in,  guided  by  flame  and 
smoke.  Finally  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
not  alone.  He  moved  back  to  the  fire  and  Rear- 
ton  saw  his  face, — the  face  he  had  seen  last  when 
he  had  bent  over  his  dead  wife  where  she  had 
fallen.  He  gazed  at  his  former  friend  stolidly  for 
a  time  with  unwavering  insistence,  but  by  degrees 
a  partial  capacity  for  reason  dawned  upon  him 
and  with  it  came  a  measure  of  memory  and  hate. 

Meanwhile   the   man   was   frozen   to   the    spot, 


140        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

horror-stricken    by   fright   of   what    was    revealed 
to  him. 

It  may  have  been  a  minute,  it  may  have  been 
ten,  that  the  maniac  and  man  stood  staring  at 
each  other;  the  former  with  foaming  lips  that 
sweated  drops  of  blood;  the  latter  with  cheeks 
that  blanched  and  paled.  The  man  turned  toward 
the  ship.  Its  coming  promised  safety,  should  it 
come  in  season;  and  while  he  did  so  Rearton 
advanced  a  single  step,  pausing  when  the  man 
faced  him  again. 

There  was  power  in  sanity.  It  exercised  a  cer 
tain  mastery  over  him.  Man  and  beast  stood 
looking  fixedly  each  at  the  other,  but  he  could 
not  resist  the  desire  to  turn  and  see  from  time  to 
time  the  movements  of  the  ship,  and  whenever  he 
did  so  Rearton,  crouching  low,  came  closer.  For 
an  hour  this  was  the  fashion  of  his  advance,  and 
in  that  hour  the  man  had  looked  at  the  approach 
ing  ship  just  thirty  times.  The  maniac  had  made 
just  thirty  forward  steps  that  counted  thirty 
yards.  Perhaps  there  remained  ten  that  separated 
them. 

The  ship  was  stationary,  and  a  boat  had  left  its 
side  and  started  in.  Strong  as  was  his  tempta 
tion  the  man  dared  not  look.  He  kept  his  face 
turned  to  the  maniac.  He  put  one  foot  behind 
him  and  fell  back  in  the  direction  of  the  beach, 
moving  with  the  utmost  caution.  With  equal 
caution  the  maniac  followed. 


WHAT  REARTON  SAW  141 

They  had  almost  reached  the  water.  They 
heard  the  distant  splash  of  oars  disturb  the  still 
ness, — and  giving  way  to  weakness,  the  man  with 
drew  his  eyes  that  he  might  see  the  boat.  In 
stantly,  with  a  bound,  the  maniac  darted  at  him. 
He  gave  a  smothered  cry  of  rage  as  he  hurled 
himself  on  the  man,  bearing  him  to  earth.  There 
was  a  short  terrific  struggle  as  they  wrenched  to 
and  fro,  his  teeth  were  buried  in  the  man's  throat, 
and  mouthing  closer  with  vise-like  grips  he  stran 
gled  him  to  death. 

As  this  was  doing  the  sailors  landed,  and  armed 
with  their  oars  came  near  the  place  where  the  two 
men  were.  Rearton  relaxed  his  hold  on  the  dead 
man's  throat  and  with  an  angry  snarl  sprang  at 
the  foremost.  With  their  oars  the  sailors  beat  him 
off  and  hastily  retreating  to  the  boat  pushed 
afloat,  still  defending  themselves  against  his  mad 
attacks. 

When  sufficient  space  was  between  them,  they 
paused  to  look  and  marvel.  They  could  see  him 
alone  now  in  the  desert,  down  on  his  hands  and 
feet,  chasing  and  biting  at  the  cloud  shadows  that 
drifted  over  the  waste  and  sandy  plain  and  fruit 
less  earth. 

Slowly,  lurching  forward  by  stealth  and  cun 
ning  across  the  table,  came  Rearton's  actual  self. 
He  was  frothing  at  the  mouth,  his  face  showed 
red  with  livid  scars.  Nearer — nearer  he  came, 


142        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

until  I  felt  his  hot  breath  touch  me.  I  could  not 
move  .  .  .  but  fear  gave  me  power  ...  by  a 
mighty  effort  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  breaking  the 
spell.  Still  he  followed  me  on  hands  and  knees 
over  the  table.  It  was  no  fancy.  I  saw  him  with 
unclouded  senses.  I  could  see  the  flakes  of  foam 
upon  his  lips, — for  there  they  were ! — I  could  see 
the  livid  cuts  and  bloodshot  eyes.  He  was  mad. 
The  vision  had  become  the  reality.  So  bestial 
was  he,  so  awful  and  inhuman,  that  without  a 
thought  of  pity  for  him  I  snatched  up  the  chair 
in  which  I  had  been  sitting,  and  swung  it  up  above 
my  head.  He  crept  nearer  in  his  hideousness. 
The  chair  quivered  in  my  clutch,  ready  to  fall. 
It  was  his  life  or  mine, — and  he  was  mad. 

But  I  was  saved  the  after  pain  and  remorse 
that  would  have  been  mine  had  he  taken  hurt  or 
harm  at  my  hands.  The  man  who  had  done  this 
thing,  who  was  destined  to  answer  for  this  sin  of 
his  committing,  glided  in  between  us.  Rearton, 
where  he  crouched  in  readiness  to  spring  at  me, 
glanced  up,  his  interest  diverted  for  the  moment, 
and  his  eyes  met  those  that  were  so  strangely 
dark  and  luminous.  He  wavered  beneath  the  com 
pelling  force  they  exercised, — wavered  for  one 
brief  instant  and  then  with  a  whine  like  a  dog's 
for  mercy,  fell  down  at  the  man's  feet,  licking 
the  floor  with  his  black  and  swollen  tongue. 

I  waited  to  see  no  more,  but  rushed  from  the 
room  out  in  the  street.  I  had  no  conception  of 


WHAT  REARTON  SAW  143 

the  time  we  had  spent  together,  but  it  must  have 
been  hours  and  hours,  for  the  streets  were  de 
serted  and  empty.  I  judged  it  to  be  long  after 
midnight. 

For  a  while  I  walked  aimlessly  about,  seeking 
to  calm  and  rid  myself  of  a  portion  of  my  horror. 
Eventually  pride  and  a  sense  of  affectionate  pity 
for  Rearton  returned.  Maybe  it  was  all  a  vision, 
— the  last  as  false  and  unreal  as  the  first !  Though 
I  tried  to  convince  myself  of  this,  it  was  only 
by  the  strongest  exertion  of  will  that  I  was  en 
abled  to  mount  the  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to 
my  friend's  apartments. 

I  listened  in  front  of  the  door  for  an  instant. 
No  sound  came  from  within.  With  a  hand  that 
trembled  violently,  I  pushed  it  open  and  entered 
the  room.  There  on  the  floor  were  Rearton  and 
the  man, — now  the  victim  of  his  victim.  Rear- 
ton's  teeth  had  torn  his  face  and  breast  in  a  shock 
ing  manner,  and  their  last  fatal  hold  was  at  his 
throat,  on  which  they  were  firmly  set.  Both  were 
dead.  About  the  room  the  broken  furniture  gave 
every  evidence  of  a  frightful  and  prolonged  strug- 
gle. 


HOW  MR.  RATHBURN  WAS  BROUGHT  IN 

RATHBURN  paced  the  room  with  noiseless 
tread,  now  and  then  stopping  to  look  at  the 
tossing  figure  of  the  boy  upon  the  cot  or  to 
listen  to  the  words  he  spoke  in  his  delirium. 

Once  he  thought  he  caught  the  sound  of  hoofs 
upon  the  trail  and  he  halted  abruptly  as  his  hand 
stole  beneath  the  tails  of  his  long  English  coat. 

Mr.  Rathburn's  nerves  were  unstrung  by  the 
strain  imposed  upon  them  by  recent  and  painful 
events.  As  he  had  expressed  it  to  himself  half  a 
hundred  times  that  day,  "The  gentleman  who 
brings  me  in,  whether  it's  afoot  or  in  a  pine  box, 
goes  just  five  thousand  dollars  to  the  good," 
and  each  time  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  power 
ful  inducement  the  general  public  had  to  "bring 
him  in,"  his  hand  had  stolen  beneath  the  tails  of 
his  long  English  coat;  and  the  comfort  he  de 
rived  from  so  doing  had  enabled  him  to  say,  "It 
won't  be  the  first  who  tries  nor  the  first  six  who 
try,  but  the  seventh  gets  the  pot." 

Mr.  Rathburn  had  left  Denver  the  morning  pre 
vious  in  great  and  pressing  haste,  and  with  a  care 
ful  avoidance  of  human  kind.  He  had  never  been 
a  social  man  and  the  reward  of  five  thousand  dol 
lars  that  was  "out"  for  the  man  who  would  bring 

144 


MR.  RATHBURN  145 

him  in  only  served  to  intensify  the  natural  auster 
ity  of  his  character. 

The  difficulties  that  beset  Mr.  Rathburn  arose 
indirectly  out  of  a  quiet  little  game  of  poker  when 
the  stakes  had  been  high,  and  when  the  game 
had  ended  (two  gentlemen  going  broke),  the 
tempers  of  all  concerned  had  been  even  higher 
than  the  stakes. 

Mr.  Rathburn's  honor  had  been  called  into 
question.  Certain  remarks,  chiefly  notable  be 
cause  of  their  extreme  brevity  and  almost  brutal 
frankness,  had  been  directed  at  him. 

What  followed  was  hasty  and  unpremeditated. 

Now  that  time  had  given  opportunity  for  reflec 
tion,  Mr.  Rathburn  consoled  himself  with  the 
thought  that  it  was  in  self-defense.  In  his  view 
of  the  matter  he  stood  at  variance  with  that  of 
the  public,  which  was  "wilful  murder". 

Fear  of  public  sentiment  had,  however,  never 
been  a  potent  factor  in  Mr.  Rathburn's  career,  but 
now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  this  sentiment 
of  disapproval  was  backed  by  money,  and  he  was 
aware  that  several  bands  of  men  were  patroling 
the  country  and  that  the  various  individuals  com 
posing  those  bands  were  anxious  to  get  within 
speaking,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  shooting  distance 
of  him. 

Rathburn  had  been  making  the  best  of  his  way 
over  the  range  that  afternoon  in  the  usual  unos 
tentatious  manner  of  a  man  fleeing  from  justice, 


146        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

when  young  Gordon  saw  him  from  his  ranch  near 
the  trail  and  rushed  in  pursuit.  Young  Gordon 
will  never  know  how  near  he  was  to  death,  for 
Mr.  Rathburn  turned  and  faced  him,  his  hand 
beneath  the  tails  of  his  long  English  coat.  As  a 
general  thing,  when  people  saw  Mr.  Rathburn's 
hand  disappear  behind  him,  they  left  precipitately, 
for  that  motion  and  the  one  that  followed  it  were 
known  to  be  singularly  fatal  to  human  life. 

Young  Gordon,  in  ignorance  of  this  fact,  had 
continued  his  approach,  which,  after  all,  was  the 
best  and  safest  thing  he  could  have  done,  for 
Rathburn  got  a  view  of  his  face,  and  being  a 
student  of  faces,  he  instantly  decided  that  young 
Gordon  was  not  looking  for  trouble. 

The  news  of  Mr.  Rathburn's  latest  shooting  af 
fray  had  not  reached  the  Foot  Hill  Ranch,  and 
young  Gordon  did  not  know  that  the  governor  of 
Colorado  had  deemed  it  expedient  to  offer  a  large 
reward  to  the  man  who  would  put  a  check  upon 
Mr.  Rathburn's  further  independent  action  and 
hand  him  over  to  the  proper  authorities  in  Den 
ver.  Whether  or  not  Mr.  Rathburn  was  to  be 
turned  in  alive  or  dead  was  left  to  the  taste  and 
judgment  of  his  captor;  the  prevailing  tone  of 
the  proclamation  suggested,  however,  that  Mr. 
Rathburn  dead  was  easier  to  handle  than  Mr. 
Rathburn  alive,  and  at  present  there  were  bets 
pending  as  to  the  probable  appearance  Mr.  Rath- 
burn  would  present  to  the  community  when  on 


MR.  RATHBURN  147i 

view  at  the  undertaker's  shop;  for  the  opinion 
that  he  was  "a  goner"  was  strong. 

Young  Gordon's  face,  white  and  drawn  with 
sorrow  and  apprehension,  was  more  eloquent  than 
any  words.  His  -brother  was  sick — dying  for  all 
he  knew.  Would  Rathburn  remain  at  the  ranch 
while  he  went  for  a  doctor?  He  dared  not  leave 
his  brother  alone.  Would  Rathburn  remain  until 
morning? 

Mr.  Rathburn  had  looked  down  the  trail.  He 
was  quite  sure  that  somewhere  behind  him  were 
a  number  of  enterprising  gentlemen,  and  that  the 
reward  of  five  thousand  dollars  had  stimulated  a 
degree  of  activity  that  would  be  his  ruin  if  he 
lingered.  He  looked  at  the  mountains  beyond, 
which,  when  reached,  promised  safety,  and  they 
were  very  near. 

An  elevation  and  generosity  of  conception  char 
acterized  many  of  Mr.  Rathburn's  acts.  Outside 
of  his  profession,  and  when  removed  from  the 
unworthy  and  corrupting  influence  of  the  flesh, 
he  was  not  without  a  certain  nobility  of  soul. 

He  cast  one  longing  look  at  the  mountains, 
wavered  and  was  lost. 

Just  ten  minutes  later  young  Gordon  was  gal 
loping  down  the  trail  at  breakneck  speed,  while 
Mr.  Rathburn  remained  in  attendance  upon  the 
sick  boy. 

As  long  as  there  was  light  in  the  sky  he  had 
turned  frequently  to  the  window  and  followed 


148        THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

with  his  eyes  the  dusty  streak  of  gray  across  the 
range  that  marked  the  windings  of  the  trail,  but 
from  without  the  distance  there  came  neither 
sound  nor  sight  of  life. 

By  turns,  as  the  night  wore  on,  Mr.  Rathburn 
was  nervous  and  reflective,  now  sitting  in  a  chair 
beside  the  cot,  now  pacing  the  floor  restlessly. 
The  present  experience  was  a  new  one  for  him. 
To  be  sure,  at  various  periods  of  his  eventful  and 
not  entirely  blameless  life  he  had  found  it  both 
safe  and  necessary  to  deprive  certain  localities  of 
his  presence.  Perhaps  the  necessity  would  again 
occur  if  he  succeeded  in  spite  of  the  delay  in  mak 
ing  good  his  escape;  but  he  was  not  prying  into 
the  future,  the  present  was  enough  for  him,  quite 
enough. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  had  forgotten  his  own 
troubles  in  his  interest  in  the  boy  upon  the  cot, 
and  it  was  borne  upon  his  consciousness  that  the 
boy  was  very  sick  indeed,  that  his  fever  had  reached 
a  crisis  and  that  unless  a  change  for  the  better  came 
before  morning  he  would  no  longer  need  the  doctor's 
aid. 

The  boy  was  very  young,  sixteen  or  seventeen 
at  most. 

Mr.  Rathburn  smoothed  his  pillow  with  gentle 
touch,  and  seating  himself  beside  the  cot,  took 
the  boy's  hand  in  his  own.  The  boy  tossed  to 
and  fro,  his  eyes  open  and  glassy,  his  skin  hot  and 
burning.  Mr.  Rathburn  placed  his  disengaged 
hand  upon  the  boy's  brow  and  set  himself  to  work 


MR.  RATHBURN  149 

to  control  and  quiet  his  ravings  by  his  own  force 
of  will. 

The  hours  wore  on.  One,  two,  three.  The 
little  clock  on  the  shelf  beside  the  door  ticked 
them  off;  still  the  boy  tossed  from  side  to  side. 
But  the  watcher  noticed  that  from  time  to  time 
there  came  moments  of  quiet  to  the  sufferer. 
They  grew  in  length  and  frequency  as  the  hours 
passed. 

"We  are  getting  the  better  of  it,"  murmured 
Rathburn  hopefully.  "On  the  whole  I  am  not 
sorry  I  stayed." 

The  hands  of  the  clock  were  pointing  to  four, 
and  the  cold  gray  of  dawn  was  stealing  over  the 
range,  shot  with  rays  of  light  in  the  east,  when 
Mr.  Rathburn  pushed  back  his  chair. 

The  boy  was  sleeping  peacefully,  his  breath 
coming  soft  and  regular.  For  the  first  time  that 
night  Mr.  Rathburn  discovered  that  he  himself 
was  both  tired  and  sleepy. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  until  he  reached  the 
center  of  the  room,  then  bringing  his  feet  to  an 
equal  elevation  with  his  head  by  means  of  a  table, 
he,  too,  slept. 

The  sunlight  was  streaming  into  the  room 
when  sounds  on  the  trail  aroused  him.  He  awoke 
with  a  start.  His  first  glance  was  at  the  boy 
who  was  still  sleeping.  Then  he  arose  and 
walked  to  the  door. 

Four  men  were  cautiously  approaching  the 
house,  while  a  fifth  held  the  horses  of  the  party. 


150        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Mr.  Rathburn  recognized  the  sheriff  of  Arapa- 
hoe  County  and  his  deputies,  and  his  hand  stole 
beneath  the  tails  of  his  long  English  coat. 

Then  he  remembered  the  sleeping  boy  upon  the 
cot. 

Mr.  Rathburn  stepped  into  the  yard. 

"Don't  shoot/'  he  said  softly,  "I  give  myself 
up." 


MISS   CAXTON'S    FATHER 

IF  Miss  Caxton's  father  had  been  called  on  to 
give  a  detailed  account  of  Miss  Caxton's  life, 
he  would  have  described  it  as  a  perpetual  round 
of  gaiety.  By  what  process  of  reasoning  he 
arrived  at  any  such  conclusion  is  known  only 
to  himself;  but  from  out  the  depths  of  his  ignor 
ance  this  belief  had  sprung,  and  it  bore  fruit  in 
an  inclination  to  curtail  any  pleasure  other  than 
the  purely  domestic  in  which  Miss  Caxton  might 
have  desired  to  indulge. 

It  was  his  custom  to  observe  that  if  one  had  a 
good  home,  that  home  was  decidedly  the  best 
place  for  one,  and  on  occasions  when  he  knew 
Miss  Caxton  was  desirous  of  spending  an  eve 
ning  out,  it  was  his  wont  to  introduce  this  state 
ment  at  the  supper  table,  as  the  moral  to  sundry 
fables. 

Likewise  he  manufactured  numerous  fictitious 
conversations  supposed  to  have  taken  place  be 
tween  himself  and  others,  in  which  Miss  Caxton 
was  held  up  as  a  shining  example  of  domesticity; 
then  he  would  light  his  cigar  and  saunter  down 
town  to  play  at  whist  until  a  late  hour  of  the 
night. 

That  there  was  anything  incongruous  in  his 
151 


152         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

conduct  or  any  discrepancy  between  his  words 
and  his  acts  never  occurred  to  him. 

Once,  when  Miss  Caxton  ventured  to  point  out 
this  apparent  difference  in  word  and  deed,  he  had 
explained  that  the  noise  the  children  made  wore 
upon  his  nerves — but  he  was  quite  sure  that  no 
man  loved  his  home  more  than  he  did,  and  that 
when  Thaddeus,  Roderick  and  Leander,  the  twin, 
grew  up  and  attained  a  decent  age,  he  would 
greatly  enjoy  spending  an  evening  now  and  then 
with  his  family.  Nothing  could  have  induced  him 
to  believe  that  the  noise  wore  upon  Miss  Caxton's 
nerves.  He  knew  very  well  that  women  liked 
that  sort  of  thing  immensely. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  imaginative  temperament, 
or  he  might  have  wondered  what  he  would  have 
done  had  there  been  no  elder  sister  to  look  after 
the  children  when  Miss  Caxton's  mother  followed 
the  youthful  Leander's  mate  out  of  this  world.  If 
this  thought  ever  gained  a  place  in  his  mind,  he 
had  put  it  aside  with  the  convincing  argument 
that  in  supplying  the  little  boys  with  an  elder  sis 
ter  he  had  placed  himself  beyond  reproach.  Miss 
Caxton  was  a  living  proof  of  that  forethought 
that  marked  the  serious  operations  of  his  life; 
nor  was  Miss  Caxton  overlooked  in  this  happy 
adjustment;  she  had  Thaddeus  and  Roderick,  not 
to  mention  the  twin — and  even  half  a  twin  was 
better  than  no  twin  at  all. 

This    satisfactory    arrangement    had    continued 


MISS  CAXTON'S  FATHER  153 

for  some  years,  when  the  advent  of  The  Fool 
upon  the  scene  disturbed  the  serenity  of  the  Cax- 
ton  household.  Of  course  The  Fool  was  not  the 
name  bestowed  upon  him  by  his  sponsors  in  bap 
tism;  it  was  an  appellation  conferred  by  Miss 
Caxton's  indignant  parent,  and  he  only  made  use 
of  it  in  his  daughter's  hearing.  That  any  one 
else  should  slip  in  and  supplant  him  in  his  daugh 
ter's  affection — while  he  was  away  playing  whist, 
filled  him  with  indignation.  He  also  was  aston 
ished  that  his  daughter  should  seem  to  care  for  The 
Fool.  Though  he  seldom  saw  him,  he  was  aware 
that  most  of  his  unoccupied  time  was  spent  in 
Miss  Caxton's  society,  and  he  also  knew  that  each 
night,  as  he  came  in  at  one  door  The  Fool  was 
taking  his  leave  of  Miss  Caxton  at  another.  But 
the  young  man's  departure  was  so  nicely  timed 
with  reference  to  the  charms  of  whist  that  he  had 
never  actually  set  eyes  upon  him  in  Miss  Caxton's 
presence. 

Never  before  having  come  in  contact  with  the 
inevitable,  Miss  Caxton's  father  had  a  poor  opin 
ion  of  it.  He  began  a  vigorous  campaign,  in 
which  he  was  uniformly  worsted.  They  had 
Bunker  Hill  for  breakfast,  Miss  Caxton  trium 
phantly  crossed  the  Delaware  for  dinner  and 
Cornwallis  surrendered  at  supper  time,  and  with 
drew  to  play  whist,  leaving  Miss  Caxton  and  The 
Fool  in  possession  of  the  field. 

Miss  Caxton's  ability  to  keep  her  temper  and 


154         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

preserve  that  equanimity  which  was  her  most 
marked  characteristic,  gave  her  undoubted  emi 
nence  in  this  species  of  warfare — for  the  cloud 
of  battle  hung  forever  over  the  house.  Her 
calmness  exasperated  her  father  more  than  any 
words  could  have  done. 

Under  these  trying  circumstances  a  man  of  less 
fixed  habits  would  have  taken  to  drink  as  a  means 
of  relief — Miss  Caxton's  father  took  to  abusing 
the  children.  The  little  boys  and  the  twin  began 
to  lead  a  dog's  life,  particularly  the  youthful 
Leander,  who  seemed  to  possess  a  great  though 
unconscious  power  of  enraging  his  parent  far  in 
excess  of  all  endurance.  At  dinner  and  supper, 
the  only  meals  they  took  with  their  father,  they 
were  barely  permitted  to  speak  in  whispers,  and 
then  only  to  make  known  their  wants  in  the  most 
direct  English  at  their  command.  This  had  a  re 
pressing  tendency  on  youthful  spirit. 

How  long  it  would  have  been  possible  for  this 
happy  state  of  affairs  to  have  continued  there  is 
no  telling.  Miss  Caxton  saw  fit  to  bring  matters 
to  a  crisis.  One  day,  in  company  with  The  Fool, 
she  left  the  paternal  roof;  at  the  same  time  she 
despatched  a  communication  to  her  father,  re 
questing  his  immediate  presence  at  home.  When 
he  received  the  summons  it  had  a  mystifying  ef 
fect  upon  him,  but  in  obedience  to  the  request,  he 
repaired  to  the  scene  of  his  domestic  joys.  He 
had  no  sooner  crossed  the  threshold  than  some 
thing  within  him  corresponding  to  intuition  made 


MISS  CAXTON'S  FATHER  155 

manifest  to  his  mind's  eye  that  all  was  not  right. 
The  little  boys  were  not  visible;  even  Leander's 
voice  was  hushed.  Most  assuredly  something 
was  wrong. 

But  what? 

Miss  Caxton's  father  inspected  the  various 
rooms  comprising  his  establishment.  In  his  own 
room  he  found,  conspicuously  tucked  in  one  cor 
ner  of  his  looking-glass,  a  neatly  folded  note, 
directed  to  himself  in  Miss  Caxton's  familiar 
hand.  This  evidently  was  meant  to  explain  the 
mystery.  He  tore  it  open.  He  read  it.  Then 
he  read  it  over. 

That  the  contents  of  the  note  were  exercising 
a  powerful  and  not  wholly  pacifying  influence 
upon  him  was  easy  to  be  seen.  Miss  Caxton  had 
eloped  with  The  Fool. 

She  asked  him  to  look  after  the  children  until 
she  should  return,  which  would  be  as  soon  as  she 
was  married.  Miss  Caxton's  father  held  the  note 
out  toward  his  angry  reflection  in  the  glass: 

"Here's  gratitude  for  you!  Well,  she  needn't 
come  back  home, — I'm  done  with  her!" 

Then,  being  only  a  man,  he  swore;  and  while 
he  swore  he  made  up  his  mind  to  a  course  of  ac 
tion  that  he  intended  should  very  much  astonish 
Miss  Caxton,  when  that  young  lady  returned  as 
Mrs.  Some-body-else. 

"Does  she  think  I'll  stand  this?  I  see  myself 
forgiving  her.  If  I  lay  my  hands  on  The  Fool 
he'll  spend  his  honeymoon  with  broken  bones!" 


156        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Suddenly  he  bethought  him  of  the  little  boys. 
They  no  doubt  had  availed  themselves  of  the  ab 
sence  of  all  restraining  force  to  do  as  they  pleased. 
As  this  flashed  through  his  mind  he  turned  a 
trifle  pale.  He  rather  regretted  that  he  had  been 
so  severe  with  Leander,  for  supposing — 

He  ran  down-stairs  and  into  the  yard,  only 
stopping  to  glance  at  the  kitchen  stove  with  a 
vague  dread  lest  Leander  had  crawled  into  it  and 
been  cremated.  On  reaching  the  yard  he  exam 
ined  the  well,  and  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  it 
empty  of  everything  except  water. 

Then  he  espied  the  little  boys  with  the  twin 
between  them  perched  upon  the  roof  of  a  con 
venient  coal  shed  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  whither 
they  had  withdrawn,  knowing  that  something  un 
usual  was  about  to  happen.  The  instant  his  eyes 
fell  upon  him  his  habitual  acrimony  for  the  twin 
asserted  itself: 

"Come  down  off  of  that !  Do  you  want  to  break 
your  necks?"  he  gasped.  "Come  down,  I  say!" 

This  the  little  boys  were  reluctant  to  do.  They 
knew  their  father  as  an  exceedingly  irate  gentle 
man.  Therefore,  when  they  caught  sight  of  him, 
it  begot  no  special  joy  in  their  hearts.  Roderick 
and  Thaddeus  started  to  descend  from  the  roof, 
while  the  twin,  lifting  up  his  voice,  howled  forth 
his  dismay. 

"Hold  on  to  the  twin!"  called  Miss  Caxton's 
father.  "Do  you  wish  him  to  fall?" 


MISS  CAXTON'S  FATHER  157 

What  activity  the  little  boys  possessed  was 
dispelled  by  their  father's  evident  anger.  They 
sat  upon  the  ridge  of  the  roof,  motionless  and 
speechless.  Their  parent  inspected  the  premises. 

"How  in  the  name  of  sense  did  you  get  up 
there?" 

A  sob  from  Leander  was  the  only  answer. 
Thaddeus  and  Roderick  maintained  a  discreet  si 
lence. 

Miss  Caxton's  father  was  a  very  busy  man  for 
the  next  fifteen  minutes.  He  obtained  a  long 
pole  and  poked  the  little  boys  off  the  roof,  one 
at  a  time,  beginning  with  the  twin;  then  as  they 
rolled  from  the  shed  he  ran  and  caught  them.  A 
good  deal  of  physical  energy  was  required  in  the 
operation,  and  when  Roderick  was  dislodged,  he 
being  the  last,  Miss  Caxton's  parent  was  hot  and 
exhausted;  there  was  also  a  baleful  gleam  in  his 
eyes,  suggestive  of  the  wrath  to  come. 

He  picked  up  the  twin,  whose  small  lungs 
seemed  to  distil  shrieks,  and  followed  by  the 
little  boys  who  sulked  at  his  side,  entered  the 
house.  During  the  next  hour  or  two  he  gained  a 
larger  experience  in  the  pure  joys  of  domestic 
life  than  are  usually  crowded  into  so  brief  a 
period. 

He  gave  Roderick  and  Thaddeus  their  supper 
— and  something  else  as  well — and  put  them  to 
bed.  Then  he  took  Leander  in  hand,  and  tried 
to  get  his  faculties  into  a  condition  for  sleep. 


158        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

The  twin  refused  to  be  comforted;  he  wanted 
Miss  Caxton,  and  Miss  Caxton  only.  It  was  the 
burden  of  his  woes.  His  father  looked  at  him. 
In  his  glance  paternal  love  seemed  to  be  in  abey 
ance. 

"You'd  better  make  up  your  mind  to  going  to 
bed  without  her,  for  she's  put  you  to  sleep  for 
the  last  time." 

Whereat   Leander   howled   afresh. 

"If  you  don't  stop  and  let  me  have  a  moment's 
quiet,  I  shall  punish  you.  You  hear?" 

Leander  choked  down  a  sob  and  was  silent. 

"There,"  said  his  father  approvingly,  "I  guess 
we  can  get  along  all  right.  Now,  you  go  to  sleep 
—right  off." 

Leander's  sobs  broke  forth  again. 

"What's  the   matter  now?" 

More  sobs  and  a  howl. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  to  keep  still.  Why  don't 
you?" 

Then  he  grew  persuasive. 

"Don't  you  love  your  papa?" 

The   twin   looked   at   him   with   wide   eyes. 

"I  am  appealing  to  his  better  self,"  reflected 
Miss  Caxton's  parent.  "The  instinct  of  affection 
that  a  child  has  is  a  most  wonderful  thing,  a  wonder 
ful  thing." 

Leander  dissolved  into  tears. 

"Hang  the  brat!     What's  got  into  him  now?" 

Miss  Caxton's  parent  arose  and  paced  the  floor. 
Leander's  grief  continued  unchecked.  His  father 


MISS  CAXTON'S  FATHER  159 

regarded  him  in  amazement;  the  twin's  capacity 
for  sorrow  was  very  astonishing;  and  his  anger 
merged  into  something  akin  to  wonder. 

"He  must  be  very  wet  inside,"  he  thought 

He  addressed  the  twin  in  conciliatory  tones. 

"See  here,  Leander,  do  you  think  it  safe  to  cry 
like  that?" 

But  Leander,  unheeding  him,  wept  on,  in  a 
highly  original  manner.  His  father  grew  uneasy. 

"Why  doesn't  he  stop?  Hush!  There!  There! 
To  please  papa,  who  loves  you  so  much.  Con 
found  you!  How  long  is  this  going  to  last — will 
it  be  all  night?"  he  asked  himself. 

His  resentment  was  weakening.  Each  sob  of 
the  twin  lessened  the  enormity  of  Miss  Caxton's 
crime.  Her  father  was  willing  to  take  her  back 
at  any  price — and  The  Fool  into  the  bargain.  In 
desperation  he  brought  the  sugar  bowl  and  placed 
it  as  an  offering  of  peace  at  Leander's  feet. 

"That  should   stop  him,"   he   muttered. 

But  it  didn't.  With  a  guilty  blush  he  went 
down  upon  his  knees  in  a  vain  effort  to  seduce 
the  twin  in  the  belief  that  he  was  a  horse.  He 
was  in  this  interesting  position  when  Miss  Caxtori 
opened  the  door  and  entered,  smiling  and  serene. 
The  Fool  was  with  her,  but  he  was  by  no  means 
so  serene  as  he  could  have  wished  to  be  and  his 
smile  was  not  an  easy  one. 

Miss  Caxton  mastered  the  situation  at  a  glance. 
Without  a  word  she  possessed  herself  of  the 
twin's  small  person. 


160        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  am  sorry,  papa,  that  you  missed  your  game 
of  whist,  but  it  won't  occur  again,"  she  said,  as 
she  walked  from  the  room. 

When  she  returned  twenty  minutes  later,  after 
having  put  Leander  to  bed,  she  found  her  father 
peacefully  drinking  cold  tea — "to  restore  the  tone 
to  his  nervous  system,"  as  he  explained — while 
he  gave  The  Fool  a  detailed  and  truthful  account 
of  his  adventure  with  the  twin. 


THE  HALF-BREED 

JOHN  LE  BO  YEN  was  an  Indian  half-breed; 
the  son  of  a  whisky-drinking  white  man  and 
a  slovenly  whisky-drinking  squaw.  Fate,  which 
decreed  he  should  have  a  copper  skin,  lifted 
him  into  temporary  and  unsavory  prominence 
only  as  the  perpetrator  of  certain  vulgar  atroci 
ties,  yet  because  there  had  been  peace  on  sea  and 
land  for  a  decade,  history  once  paused  to  give  him 
a  brief  paragraph.  Balancing  the  books,  after 
another  decade,  she  dropped  him  out  of  her  rec 
ord  of  events. 

As  a  boy,  Le  Boyen  had  been  taken  in  hand  by 
the  government  and  sent  to  school,  where  he 
mastered  a  little  reading  and  less  spelling  with 
infinite  difficulty.  Later  he  was  turned  back  on 
his  reservation,  given  land,  together  with  a  yearly 
allowance  in  supplies,  and  told  to  shift  for  himself. 

Now  the  grazing  lands  of  Le  Boyen's  reserva 
tion  were  particularly  fine  and  the  neighborhood 
ranchmen  rented  the  range  from  the  Indians  for 
their  cattle.  All  went  well  until  the  stockmen 
sent  in  a  petition  to  Congress  praying  that  virtu 
ous  body  to  remove  the  Indians,  as  they  inter 
fered  materially  with  the  cattle  business.  Con 
gress  despatched  a  commission  to  inquire  into 
the  matter. 

161 


162         THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

The  tribe  had  been  given  their  land  just  fif 
teen  years  previous,  with  the  solemn  assurance 
that  they  should  not  be  molested.  They  had  be 
fore  that  been  moved  exactly  three  times.  These 
moves  had  each  involved  a  little  war,  and  the 
government  had  shot  a  few  of  the  rebellious 
tribesmen  at  a  cost  of  several  thousand  dollars 
apiece,  which  was  expensive,  but  had  proved 
profitable  in  the  long  run,  for,  once  dead,  they 
cost  nothing  to  maintain.  This  was  indeed  the  cheap 
est  mode  of  procedure. 

The  commissioners  came  upon  the  scene  and 
they  found  the  Indian  very  much  in  the  way.  He 
was  dirty,  wasteful  and  not  to  be  tolerated.  When 
they  had  seen  these  things,  they  returned  to 
Washington  to  deliberate.  This  last  consisted 
mainly  in  discussing  the  next  election — the  true 
essence  of  statesmanship.  A  month  or  so  later 
the  Indians  were  informed  that  the  great  white 
father,  who  had  his  home  toward  the  rising  sun 
and  who  was  chiefly  notable  because  of  his  in 
satiate  appetite  for  land,  desired  their  reservation. 
The  tribe  voiced  a  feeble  protest,  but  the  pressure 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  white  father  was  rather 
more  than  he  had  the  moral  backbone  to  with 
stand.  Troops  were  massed  in  the  vicinity  pre 
paratory  to  a  summary  dumping  of  the  Indians 
farther  west. 

The  threatened  calamity  had  brought  the  sav 
ages  together  in  one  corner  of  the  reservation. 
They  buzzed  like  a  swarm  of  angry  bees.  The 


THE  HALF-BREED  163 

young  men  danced  strange  dances,  and  chanted 
songs  their  fathers  had  chanted  when  there  were 
buffaloes  on  the  plains;  but  the  old  men,  the  men 
who  had  gone  out  in  seventy-three  with  Captain 
Jack,  shook  their  heads.  They  had  known  the 
white  father  to  devour  whole  tribes,  simply  that 
he  might  call  a  few  rods  of  sage  brush  and  buffalo 
grass  his  own. 

When  night  settled  down  the  chiefs  gathered 
around  the  council  fire.  After  the  weak  and  in 
effectual  manner  of  savages,  they  wished  to  test 
the  forbearance  of  the  dominant  race;  they  might 
make  a  harmless  little  dash  into  the  cow  country 
and  then,  before  the  troops  were  fairly  on  their 
trail,  slip  back  to  the  agency.  Under  similar  cir 
cumstances  the  white  father  had  been  known  to 
display  a  prodigal  generosity  in  the  matter  of 
lean  contract  steers,  which  were  turned  out  to 
be  slaughtered  and  gorged  on. 

In  the  midst  of  these  deliberations,  a  man 
strode  into  the  circle  of  light.  It  was  Le  Boyen, 
who  silently  raised  his  arm  high  above  his  head. 
The  reeking  trophies  his  hand  held  brought  the 
shadowy  figures  pressing  close  about  him,  while 
a  sullen  murmur  grew  up  out  of  the  tense  still 
ness  that  had  fallen  on  the  tribe.  The  half-breed 
had  precipitated  an  unexpected  crisis.  Already 
mounted  men  were  spurring  over  the  range 
spreading  the  news  of  another  Indian  outrage. 
As  this  sure  knowledge  took  hold  of  the  savages, 
the  murmur  swelled  into  a  roar. 


164        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

All  in  a  second  the  group  resolved  itself  into 
a  sea  of  tossing  arms  and  waving  hands,  and  a 
portion  of  the  straining  mob  became  detached, 
wrenching  and  tearing  itself  away  from  the  rest. 
In  the  center  of  the  detached  band  was  Le  Boyen. 
About  him  were  twenty  or  thirty  men  who  were 
ready  to  put  their  fortunes  to  the  hazard  of  war, 
and  following  them  came  their  wives  and  chil 
dren.  These  fell  back  unhindered  upon  the  tents, 
struck  camp,  got  together  their  horses  and  rode 
away.  To  state  the  case  exactly,  Le  Boyen,  with 
perhaps  thirty  men  and  an  equal  number  of 
women  and  children,  had  taken  preliminary  steps 
to  declaring  war  against  the  United  States  of 
America. 

During  the  next  ten  days  he  and  his  followers 
were  a  fruitful  source  of  newspaper  interest.  His 
experience  had  taught  him,  among  other  things 
worth  remembering,  that  if  you  kill  a  man  he  is 
done  for.  Had  his  education  taught  him  propor 
tion  he  would  have  known  it  was  wasted  labor 
on  his  part  to  begin  the  extermination  of  sixty 
odd  millions  of  human  beings  with  the  means  and 
men  he  had  at  hand.  Not  appreciating  this,  he 
began  his  ambitious  undertaking  at  once,  mov 
ing  across  the  plains  with  no  fixed  plan  or  desti 
nation,  gathering  in  the  settlers  along  his  line  of 
march;  and  the  gathering  in  was  attended  by 
horrors  not  to  be  told.  Then  he  took  himself  off 
toward  the  mountains  with  the  most  complete 


THE  HALF-BREED  165 

and  extensive  collection  of  scalps  made  in  many 
years. 

Through  all  these  days  of  success  his  interest 
in  the  total  destruction  of  the  white  race  never 
flagged;  but  certain  of  his  followers  were  not  so 
constituted  that  they  cherished  a  lofty  ideal  purely 
for  the  ideal's  sake.  These,  after  the  first  flush 
of  war  had  paled  its  glow  for  them,  began  to 
think  sadly  of  consequences.  The  hard  life,  the 
thirst  and  starvation  of  the  foray,  grew  stale  and 
tedious;  they  longed  for  the  ease  and  sloth  of  the 
reservation,  where  water  was  plenty  and  rations 
had  the  noble  quality  of  regularity. 

Two  Indians  in  particular  wished  to  be  taken 
back  into  the  fold;  and  as  the  days  came  full  of 
effort  and  hunger,  this  wish  thrived  apace,  and 
they  agreed  that  the  white  father  would  doubtless 
pay  well  for  a  little  information  as  to  Le  Boyen's 
whereabouts.  To  furnish  him  with  the  coveted 
knowledge  it  would  be  necessary  for  one  to  re 
main  with  the  band,  while  the  other  deserted. 
Their  plan  was  no  sooner  perfected  than  it  was 
acted  upon,  and  Le  Boyen,  suspecting  the  mean 
ing  though  not  the  extent  of  the  disaffection,  put 
his  people  on  forced  marches.  For  four  days  they 
toiled  into  the  mountains,  while  the  traitor  in 
their  midst  left  his  fatal  marks  on  every  rod  of 
land  they  crossed.  On  the  fourth  day  the  band 
went  into  camp,  that  Le  Boyen  might  have  time 
in  which  to  mature  plans  for  the  future. 


166        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Day  had  scarcely  dawned  again  when  the  traitor 
stole  out  to  inspect  his  surroundings.  All  the 
warriors  slept,  even  to  the  guards,  who,  as  they 
sat  about  the  ashes  of  the  fires,  nodded  over  the 
guns  in  their  laps.  The  only  ones  astir  were  a 
few  Indian  mothers,  who  were  already  lashing 
their  babies  to  the  travaux  strapped  to  their  lean 
dogs.  The  traitor  had  mounted  a  rugged  bluff 
that  overhung  the  canyon  leading  back  into  the 
valley  where  the  temporary  encampment  was 
made,  and  straining  his  eyes  to  the  farthest  dis 
tance  he  saw  what  he  yearned  to  see,  a  long  line 
of  mounted  men.  Rations  were  destined  to  be 
regular  and  his  heart  was  glad.  Without  a  back 
ward  glance  toward  the  camp  he  started  on  a 
run  in  the  direction  of  the  approaching  horsemen. 

In  the  valley  the  band  slumbered  on.  The 
fagged  ponies  nipped  the  grass.  The  squaws 
moved  quickly  to  and  fro  among  the  tents.  Then 
one  of  the  dozing  sentries  awoke  with  a  start  and 
stood  erect.  Black  against  the  crimson  disk  of 
the  rising  sun  he  saw  the  solitary  figure  of  a  man ; 
and  even  as  he  gazed  another  and  another  filed 
into  view.  He  knew  they  were  mounted  men, 
though  a  rise  in  the  ground  hid  the  horses  from 
his  sight.  While  he  stood  looking  at  them  in 
stupid  and  speechless  amazement,  they  wheeled 
over  the  intervening  hillock  with  the  sharp  clang 
of  steel  on  stirrup  iron,  and  with  a  wild  hurrah 
raced  down  the  hill  upon  the  camp.  What  the 


THE  HALF-BREED  167 

savages  first  knew,  roused  from  their  sleep,  was 
that  a  hundred  men  were  riding  furiously  among 
the  tents  with  blazing  carbines.  The  surprise 
was  so  complete  that  the  Indians  offered  no  re 
sistance;  those  who  could,  men,  women  and  chil 
dren,  rushed  toward  the  ponies,  stimulated  by  a 
vague  hope  that  they  might  escape;  and  as  they 
ran  they  were  shot  down. 

Foremost  among  those  who  strove  to  reach  the 
horses  was  Le  Boyen.  His  war  pony,  saddled  and 
bridled  in  constant  readiness  for  alarms,  grazed 
apart  from  the  tired  mounts  of  his  party.  He 
reached  and  threw  himself  astride  of  it,  and  with 
a  yell  whirled  through  the  ranks  of  the  slaughter 
ing  whites.  In  the  stupendous  strain  of  the  few 
short  seconds  while  he  was  flying  through  their 
midst  he  was  absolute  master  of  himself,  and  in 
a  cloud  of  dust  and  smoke,  a  score  of  men  firing 
at  his  half-naked  figure,  he  dashed  up  the  trail 
unscathed,  away  from  the  horror  of  total  anni 
hilation  that  lurked  in  the  valley. 

Ahead  of  him  the  trail  dipped  into  a  narrow 
bottom.  Crossing  this  it  wound  up  a  steep  ascent 
and  disappeared  in  a  rocky  gorge.  Le  Boyen 
gained  the  bottom  and  the  partial  cover  of  its 
timber,  when  his  horse  stumbled.  He  drew  it  up 
with  a  savage  jerk.  The  next  instant  it  collapsed 
in  a  heap  under  him.  He  cleared  his  feet  from  the 
stirrups  and  leaped  from  the  saddle,  and  with  his 
cartridge  belt  in  one  hand  and  his  rifle  in  the 


168        THE  HAND  OF,  THE  MIGHTY 

other,  plunged  through  the  brush  toward  the  as 
cent.  At  his  back  the  mounted  men  came  crash 
ing  through  the  timber,  and  as  Le  Boyen  sprang 
out  of  the  cover  and  bounded  up  the  ascent,  the 
bullets  of  his  pursuers  flecked  up  the  earth  at  his 
feet;  but  he  gained  the  entrance  of  the  gorge  in 
safety,  and  threw  himself  down  behind  the  first 
shelter  that  offered,  a  great  square  of  granite. 

He  had  his  revolvers  to  fall  back  upon,  so  he 
emptied  the  magazine  of  his  repeater.  When  the 
smoke  cleared  away  he  saw  that  his  fire  had  been 
eminently  successful.  Two  men  lay  dead  at  the 
base  of  the  ascent,  and  a  third,  wounded,  was 
endeavoring  to  crawl  away.  Le  Boyen  knew  that 
his  case  was  hopeless.  He  wondered  what  was 
back  of  him,  if  it  were  not  possible  to  enter  the 
gorge  farther  along.  In  fancy  he  saw  his  own 
hurried  rush  for  a  fresh  cover.  It  would  be  the 
last  episode  in  the  clenching  of  a  victory  destined 
in  point  of  collusiveness  to  be  little  short  of  a 
massacre. 

A  medley  of  sounds  came  from  the  camp.  He 
heard  the  voices  of  the  white  men;  an  occasional 
order  given;  the  piteous  yelping  of  the  dogs;  now 
and  then  a  stray  shot.  A  glance  in  the  direction 
of  the  valley  told  him  what  this  last  meant:  the 
soldiers  were  shooting  the  dogs,  who,  faithful  to 
their  tiny  charges,  would  not  allow  the  white  men 
to  approach  them.  Wary  and  thoroughly  fright 
ened,  they  circled  about  the  camp,  stopping  at  in- 


THE  HALF-BREED  169! 

tervals  to  howl  dismally.  An  officer  had  sug 
gested  the  expedient  of  shooting  the  dogs  as  the 
only  means  of  saving  the  babies;  but  this  was  not 
proving  successful,  for  sometimes  the  dogs  moved 
at  the  wrong  moment  or  the  soldiers'  aim  would 
prove  uncertain,  and  the  baby  and  not  the  dog 
would  be  shot. 

In  the  timbered  bottom  a  gray-haired  colonel 
was  listening  to  the  reports  of  several  soldiers, 
who,  according  to  the  fertility  of  their  imagina 
tion,  variously  estimated  that  there  were  from  ten 
to  twenty  Indians  secreted  among  the  rocks. 

"Then  they  are  very  saving  of  their  ammuni 
tion,"  commented  the  colonel  dryly.  He  turned 
to  the  officer  at  his  side:  "What  do  the  scouts 
say,  Captain?  Is  there  any  way  of  getting  at  the 
rear  of  the  redskins?" 

"Yes,   Colonel." 

"How  long  will  it  take?" 

"About  two  hours." 

"Very  well.  Detail  Lieutenant  Brookes  and 
twenty  of  our  men  to  make  the  detour.  We'll 
keep  the  volunteers  here."  The  colonel  looked 
annoyed.  "I  don't  like  this,  Gordon,"  he  said. 
"I  wish  it  might  have  come  six  months  hence, 
when  I  shall  be  retired  and  growing  roses  in 
California  with  my  wife  on  that  bit  of  a  ranch 
I've  told  you  of.  ...  Do  be  careful  about  those 
dogs;  detail  two  or  three  of  the  best  shots  for 
that  work." 


170         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

A  bullet  from  Le  Boyen's  Winchester  cut  a 
leaf  from  just  over  the  colonel's  head. 

"Better  fall  back,  Colonel,"  suggested  Gordon, 
on  the  point  of  turning  away. 

There  was  another  report  from  among  the 
rocks,  and  the  colonel  sat  down  very  stiffly  on  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  the  expression  of  his  face 
one  of  utter  astonishment. 

"Are  you  hit?"  cried  Gordon. 

"I  believe  I  am,"  said  the  colonel  in  a  whisper. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  breast  as  he  spoke;  then 
he  coughed,  and  Gordon  saw  that  there  was  blood 
on  his  lips.  Before  he  could  reach  him,  the  col 
onel  had  fallen  and  lay  quite  still  among  the 
tangled  underbrush. 

They  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  and  Gordon  covered  him  with  his  own 
coat. 

"Poor  old  colonel!"  he  said  sadly  to  his  lieuten 
ant.  "He  always  wanted  to  grow  a  garden,  poor 
fellow,  and  in  six  months  he  would  have  been  free 
to  amuse  himself  in  his  own  way."  There  was  a 
pause.  "Well,  make  up  the  detour  party  and  get 
it  started;  Til  give  those  redskins  something  to 
think  of  while  Brookes  is  getting  to  their  rear." 

During  the  next  half-hour,  from  his  place  of 
concealment,  the  half-breed  did  much  excellent 
shooting,  now  and  again  changing  his  position, 
while  the  bullets  of  the  command  flattened  them 
selves  on  the  rocks  that  hid  him. 


THE  HALF-BREED  171 

When  the  lieutenant  rejoined  his  superior  after 
Brookes'  departure,  he  found  that  Gordon  had 
taken  up  his  station  near  the  spot  where  the  col 
onel  had  been  killed.  It  overlooked  the  edge  of 
the  timber  where  he  had  stationed  his  men.  The 
lieutenant,  who  was  fresh  from  the  East,  was  pal 
pably  nervous;  while  the  captain's  manner  indi 
cated  long  familiarity  with  just  such  affairs  as 
the  one  in  hand. 

"Brookes  has  gone?"  he  queried,  without  wait 
ing  for  the  lieutenant  to  speak. 

"Yes,  half  an  hour  ago." 

"And  there's  nothing  stirring  in  the  camp  back 
of  us?  That  was  a  pretty  clean  sweep.  How 
about  Sergeant  Porter  and  the  dogs?" 

"He  thinks  he's  got  them  all,  sir." 

"That's  good;  that's  very  good!" 

Gordon  took  the  young  man  by  the  arm,  and 
side  by  side  they  fell  to  pacing  back  and  forth. 
The  captain  was  well  pleased  with  the  situation. 

"Brookes  and  his  party  will  soon  be  behind  the 
redskins,"  he  observed;  "and  when  they  break 
for  fresh  cover  we  shall  have  a  good  chance  to 
test  the  new  guns  and  ammunition." 

The  lieutenant  smiled.  It  was  not  a  mirthful 
smile;  but  then  he  was  between  the  captain  and 
the  gorge,  and  anything  like  enthusiasm  over 
gunshot  wounds  was  beyond  him. 

"Do  you  count  on  the  home  talent  standing  if 
the  Indians  try  for  this  cover?"  he  asked. 


172        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

"Certainly.  The  cowboys  don't  have  much  of 
an  open  season  in  which  to  shoot  Indians.  We'll 
wind  'em  up  in  the  open."  Leveling  his  field- 
glass,  the  captain  took  a  hasty  survey  of  the 
gorge.  "I  guess  they  are  coming  now.  Yes,  it's 
Brookes  and  his  men!" 

Le  Boyen,  among  the  rocks,  was  also  aware 
of  the  approach  of  Brookes.  He  was  also  aware 
that  the  captain  was  getting  his  men  in  hand.  He 
had  found  time  to  roll  a  boulder  or  two  to  the 
rear  of  the  position  he  had  originally  assumed, 
and  now,  on  the  top  of  one  of  these,  he  placed 
his  two  revolvers.  On  the  whole,  he  was  not  par 
ticularly  desirous  of  living  since  the  destruction 
of  his  band;  but  he  was  desirous  of  doing  as  much 
hurt  to  his  enemies  as  he  could. 

The  volleys  of  the  men  from  below  and  the 
volleys  of  the  men  in  his  rear  now  swept  his  hid 
ing-place.  It  would  have  been  fatal  to  expose  a 
hand  or  an  arm  even.  He  would  wait  until  the 
two  parties  had  advanced  so  close  that  they  must 
discontinue  their  fire,  then  there  would  be  a  brief 
second  or  two  in  which  one  who  was  really  in 
different  about  living  could  do  much  harm.  And 
so  it  happened  that  Brookes  and  his  men  were 
face  to  face  with  the  rest  of  the  command,  scarce 
ly  fifty  yards  separating  them,  when  Le  Boyen 
picked  up  a  revolver  in  each  hand  and  rose  from 
his  lair.  Before  the  startled  troopers  knew  what 
he  meant  to  do,  he  was  emptying  them  in  their 
faces. 


THE  HALF-BREED  173 

The  captain  had  been  the  last  man  up  the  as 
cent,  owing  to  the  shortness  of  his  legs.  He  found 
Brookes  and  his  men  clustered  about  a  solitary 
figure  on  the  ground,  a  figure  riddled  and  torn 
with  bullets. 

"Humph!"  with  a  glance  at  the  half-breed. 
"Where  are  the  rest,  men?"  he  added. 

"That's  all,  sir,"  said  Brookes. 

"Nonsense;  you  don't  mean  that  he  stood  us 
off  alone?" 

The  lieutenant  looked  at  the  figure  on  the 
ground. 

"It's  just  about  the  right  proportion,  don't 
you  think?"  he  ventured. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  say  that  for  the  credit  of  the 
race,"  said  the  captain.  "Poor  old  colonel;  think 
of  getting  shot  in  an  affair  of  this  kind!" 


WILLIE 

ffT^HEY  say  The  Pines  is  a  great  place  to 
•*•  feed.  I  thought  you'd  be  tickled  to  death 
with  the  assignment!"  said  Chisholm. 

Bentley  Ames'  glance  came  back  from  the 
dome  of  the  capitol,  seen  now  through  the  clos 
ing  mists  of  a  rainy  day  and  the  falling  twilight, 
to  rest  on  his  chief's  face  with  a  lurking  suspicion 
of  disfavor. 

"I  supposed  you'd  let  me  cover  the  convention," 
he  said.  "What's  Carveth  going  down  to  Little 
Mountain  for? — if  he  wants  the  nomination  why 
doesn't  he  get  busy?" 

"He's  made  his  canvass.  You  see,  Ames,  he 
runs  a  factory  in  one  of  the  western  counties, — 
makes  shirts, — the  business  office  gets  a  thousand 
a  year  out  of  him  and  the  News  has  got  to  treat 
him  right."  And  the  following  morning,  Ames, 
the  expression  of  whose  face  told  of  the  spirit  of 
resignation  that  possessed  him,  boarded  the  train 
for  Little  Mountain. 

He  expected  to  reach  his  destination  by  ten 
o'clock,  but  there  was  a  freight  wreck  on  the 
road.  As  a  result  he  spent  five  hours  at  a  sad 
little  way  station,  and  when  the  line  resumed  its 

174 


WILLIE  175 

functions  as  a  common  carrier,  he  took  the  after 
noon  train  that  had  just  pulled  in.  He  first  sought 
the  parlor-car,  which  he  found  occupied  by  three 
ladies;  then  in  rather  low  spirits,  his  mind  divided 
between  thoughts  of  the  luncheon  he  had  not  had 
and  the  dinner  he  would  order  at  The  Pines,  he 
wandered  on  into  the  smoker.  Near  the  door 
were  four  men  playing  cards.  There  next  fell  un 
der  his  scrutiny  a  young  fellow  of  five  or  six  and 
twenty,  who  was  reading  a  shabby  volume  of 
Emerson.  Three  seats  farther  on  was  the  only 
other  passenger  in  the  car,  a  solidly  built  man  of 
sixty  with  a  pleasant  ruddy  face;  he  was  dressed 
in  black  broadcloth  and  wore  a  high  silk  hat,  and 
as  Ames  dropped  into  the  seat  opposite  him  he 
gave  the  News  man  a  half  smile  of  friendly  recog 
nition.  There  was  something  so  genial  and  win 
ning  in  his  very  air  that  Ames  smiled  in  return. 

"Sightly,  ain't  it?"  and  the  silk  hat  dipped  in 
the  direction  of  the  autumn  landscape,  where  the 
brown  fields  yielded  at  intervals  to  gorgeous  reds 
and  russets  set  in  a  murky  haze.  Ames  admitted 
the  beauty,  and  the  stranger  took  the  cigar  from 
between  his  strong  even  teeth.  "Fond  of  nature?" 
he  inquired. 

In  a  general  way  Mr.  Ames  was,  but  he  was  not 
enthusiastic  about  it;  indeed,  he  was  so  profound 
ly  sophisticated  that  sensation  of  any  sort  reached 
him  in  a  very  diluted  form.  The  elder  man  scan 
ned  the  younger;  then  he  drew  from  the  region 


176        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

of  his  hip  a  flat  learther  pocketbook.  It  yielded 
up  a  square  of  pasteboard  which  he  passed  across 
the  aisle  to  Ames,  who  read:  "Jeremiah  Carveth. 
Originator  Plymouth  Rock  Dollar  Shirt.  'Made 
on  Honor/  ' 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Ames.  "You're  just  the  man 
I  want  to  see,  Mr.  Carveth.  I'm  from  the  News." 

"Are  you  now?"  Mr.  Carveth  was  frankly 
pleased.  "What's  your  name?" 

"Ames— Bentley  Ames." 

"Excuse  me — "  and  Mr.  Carveth  turned  in  his 
seat.  "Willie,  step  here!"  he  called,  and  the 
reader  of  Emerson  put  aside  his  book.  "Mr. 
Ames,  I  want  you  should  know  my  secretary,  W. 
C.  B.  McPherson,  William  Cullen  Bryant  Mc- 
Pherson,"  said  Mr.  Carveth,  when  the  secretary 
stood  at  his  elbow.  "He's  a  newspaper  boy,  too 
— does  the  locals  on  the  Marysville  Clarion.  Mr. 
Ames,  of  the  Capital  City  News,  Willie." 

W.  'C.  B.  McPherson  gave  Ames  an  embarrassed 
smile. 

"Not  a  newspaper  man  in  the  sense  that  Mr. 
Ames  is."  It  was  evident  he  stood  in  awe  of 
this  more  metropolitan  member  of  the  craft. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Carveth. 
"I've  always  considered  the  Clarion  a  mighty  clean 
sheet." 

Ames  smiled  enigmatically.  He  was  thinking 
of  Mr.  Carveth's  rival,  General  Pogue,  "Slippery 
Dick,  who  lived  with  his  ear  next  the  ground," 


WILLIE  177 

and  of  James  Cartwright  Smith,  who  was  back  of 
the  general.  Carveth  resumed  the  conversation. 

"Ever  been  to  Marysville?  It's  named  after 
my  wife;  my  factory's  there." 

Ames  had  not  been  to  Marysville;  he  admitted, 
however,  that  he  had  heard  of  the  place. 

The  landscape  beyond  the  car  windows  had 
changed  its  characteristic  aspect.  The  fields  had 
grown  smaller,  the  goldenrod  and  immortelles 
waved  over  heaps  of  stones  in  the  fence-rows, 
while  the  russets  and  reds  and  browns  had  given 
place  to  the  somber  green  of  pine  and  hemlock. 
And  now  the  train  drew  up  at  a  tiny  ornate  sta 
tion.  The  three  men  climbed  into  the  coach  that 
was  waiting  for  them  and  were  soon  toiling  up  a 
winding  road,  from  which  they  presently  emerged 
upon  the  single  street  of  a  sleepy  village.  Beyond 
the  village  and  crowning  the  mountain's  summit 
they  could  distinguish  the  long  stone  and  timber 
facade  of  The  Pines  in  the  shadow  of  the  sinking 
sun. 

Ames  dined  with  the  candidate  and  his  secre 
tary;  afterward  he  interviewed  Mr.  Carveth.  His 
story  off  his  hands,  he  was  lounging  about  the  of 
fice  with  only  the  night  clerk  for  company,  when 
suddenly  McPherson  appeared;  he  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  while  his  feet  were  thrust  into 
worsted  bed-slippers;  in  his  hand  he  carried  a 
pitcher.  It  was  evident  he  did  not  see  the  two 
men  in  the  corner  by  the  news-stand,  for  after 


178        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

glancing  about  to  get  his  bearings  he  disappeared 
down  the  corridor  leading  to  the  dining-room. 
A  moment  later  they  heard  him  rattle  a  locked 
door,  then  again  the  patter  of  his  slippered  feet 
sounded  on  the  tessellated  pavement,  and  he  re 
appeared  in  the  lobby.  Ames  heard  him  say 
"Dang  it!"  but  rather  in  disappointment  than  in 
anger;  and  then  the  clerk  emitted  a  shrill  cackle 
of  mirth,  and  McPherson,  being  thus  made  aware 
of  the  presence  of  the  two  men,  faced  them. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said.  "But  will  you  kindly 
tell  me  where  I'll  find  the  pump?" 

Gray  shadows  invaded  the  darkness  of  the 
pines  that  clothed  the  slopes  of  Little  Mountain, 
and  through  the  open,  eastward  looking  window 
of  his  room  the  morning  sun  shone  in  upon  the 
News  man.  Perhaps  he  missed  the  clang  of  the 
trolley's  gong,  the  early  milk  wagon's  clatter  on 
the  paved  street;  perhaps  it  was  the  silence, 
scarce  disturbed  by  the  song  of  birds  and  the  mur 
mur  of  the  wind  in  the  pines,  that  roused  him; 
but  Bentley  Ames  emerged  from  his  slumber  and 
without  changing  his  position,  looked  from  his 
window  into  the  red  eye  of  the  sun.  He  dressed 
and  slipping  out  into  the  hall,  tapped  on  McPher- 
son's  door. 

"Come  in,"  called  the  secretary,  and  Ames  en 
tered  the  room.  McPherson  was  seated  at  his 
table,  writing.  "Oh,  Mr.  Ames—  '  he  said.  He 
seemed  both  pleased  and  embarrassed. 


WILLIE  179 

"Don't  get  up ;"  and  Ames,  establishing  himself 
on  the  edge  of  McPherson's  bed,  began  to  roll  a 
cigarette.  "Suppose  you  tell  me  how  Mr.  Carveth 
broke  into  politics,"  he  suggested. 

McPherson's  face  lighted  instantly  with  enthu 
siasm. 

"There's  a  wonderful  man,  Mr.  Ames;  a  splen 
did  type  of  the  American  business  man!  You 
should  go  through  his  factory;  you  should  see  the 
hundreds  of  busy  operators.  You  would  under 
stand  then  what  Mr.  Carveth  means  to  Marys- 
ville.  Marysville,"  added  the  secretary,  "is  pledged 
to  Mr.  Carveth." 

"I  dare  say."  But  Ames  was  not  impressed  by 
the  loyalty  of  Marysville. 

"You  don't  think  much  of  his  chances?"  ven 
tured  McPherson. 

"What  I  think  of  them  wouldn't  be  fit  to  print," 
said  Ames  candidly.  "Dick  Pogue's  rather  a  hot 
proposition  for  your  man  to  stack  up  against,  and 
back  of  Pogue  is  J.  C.  Smith."  Ames  slipped  off 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  took  a  turn  about  the 
room. 

"You  must  admit,  Mr.  Ames,  that  nobody  has 
any  confidence  in  either  General  Pogue  or  Mr. 
Smith,"  said  McPherson. 

"They  can  get  along  without  it,"  said  Ames 
with  calm  cynicism. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  any  public  man 
could  go  far  without  the  trust  of  his  fellow  citi 
zens,"  observed  McPherson. 


180        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"With  those  ideas  you  should  keep  clear  of  poli 
tics.  You  and  Mr.  Carveth  may  as  well  retire  to 
the  classic  regions  of  Susansville." 

"Marysville,"  corrected  McPherson  mildly. 

"Marysville,  then/'  said  Ames.  He  paused  by 
the  corner  of  McPherson's  desk.  "Well,  the  oc 
casion  will  be  interesting  as  a  souvenir  of  public 
life,  eh,  McPherson?"  and  he  smiled  down  pity 
ingly  on  the  top  of  the  secretary's  slightly  bald 
head,  for  McPherson  was  looking  into  the  pic 
tured  face  of  a  young  girl  whose  photograph, 
framed  in  red  plush,  decorated  his  desk.  Ames 
extended  his  hand  and  possessed  himself  of  the 
photograph,  which  he  proceeded  to  examine. 
"Your  sister?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"Miss  Carveth,"  said  W.  C.  B.  McPherson,  but 
his  voice  had  lost  much  of  its  agreeable  quality. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Ames,  flushing  as 
he  hastily  returned  the  photograph  to  its  place  on 
the  desk.  McPherson  quitted  his  chair. 

"I  think  we  had  better  go  down-stairs,"  he  ob 
served  stiffly. 

They  found  Carveth  waiting  for  them  in  the 
office. 

"I  been  lookin'  over  the  paper,"  he  told  Ames, 
as  they  seated  themselves  at  the  breakfast  table. 
He  turned  to  his  secretary.  "I  can't  see  that  we 
occupy  so  darn  much  space,  Wrillie.  The  world 
seems  unaware  of  the  fact  that  Jeremiah  Carveth 
and  W.  C.  B.  McPherson  are  willing  to  act  as  a 


WILLIE  181 

kind  providence  in  shaping  the  destiny  of  a  free- 
born  people.  I'm  getting  a  sickenin'  conscious 
ness  that  there's  tall  timber  growing  for  me." 
He  laughed  in  McPherson's  face,  which  had  gone 
from  white  to  red.  "Cheer  up,  Willie,  cheer  up. 
It's  good  to  be  alive,  and  the  rest  is  dividends. 
You  mayn't  land  me  in  office,  but  what's  the  odds? 
Crisp  and  bright,  Willie,  crisp  and  bright!"  he 
urged  with  kindly  concern. 

But  the  thought  of  defeat  was  a  bitter  thing 
to  McPherson,  and  presently  he  excused  himself 
and  quitted  the  table. 

"I  want  a  meetin'-house  talk  with  you,  Ames," 
said  Carveth,  the  moment  the  secretary  was  out 
of  hearing.  "I  was  all  for  private  life,  the  privater 
the  better,  until  Willie  smoked  me  out.  It's  this 
way,  I  got  a  daughter — "  Mr.  Carveth  paused;  in 
spite  of  his  habitual  frankness  he  was  struggling 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  diffidence.  "We  got  only 
the  one  child,  and  naturally  her  mother  and  I 
center  everything  on  her;  and  we've  been  fortu 
nate,  for  we've  been  able  to  give  her  a  good  many 
advantages.  Now  Willie's  interested  in  Nellie ; 
and  Nellie's  interested  in  Willie.  It's  a  match  her 
ma  and  I  desire;  but  Willie's  chuck-full  of  pride. 
He's  got  nothing  but  a  salary  of  fifteen  dollars  a 
week,  and  he  says  he  can't  regard  marriage  as  a 
commercial  asset;  and  there  you  are."  Mr.  Car 
veth  gave  Ames  an  expressive  smile.  "I  don't 
say  but  what  Willie's  right.  He  says  if  he  can 


182         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

get  me  elected  governor  he'll  feel  that  he  ain't 
just  an  experiment.  I  guess  you  gather,  from 
what  I  say,  that  I'm  in  politics  to  oblige  Willie; 
and  that's  the  situation/' 

The  state  convention  met  on  the  tenth  of  the 
month,  and  when  the  morning  of  the  tenth 
dawned  Ames  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  dis 
quietude.  He  rather  took  it  out  on  Mr.  Carveth's 
secretary. 

"You'll  see  what  a  gilt-edged  snap  does  for  a 
man,  Mr.  McPherson,"  he  observed.  "Your  little 
delegation  and  all  the  other  little  delegations  will 
be  given  their  little  say,  then  Smith  will  quietly 
proceed  to  nominate  his  bunch;  and  it  will  dawn 
on  a  few  enlightened  minds  that  the  business  could 
have  been  transacted  by  just  getting  him  on  the 
phone  in  the  first  place."  And  having  eased  him 
self  of  this  depressing  prophecy,  Ames  began  a 
perusal  of  the  News. 

Some  two  hours  later  the  secretary  hurried  into 
the  hotel  office. 

"In  strict  confidence,  Mr.  Ames,"  he  said,  and 
thrust  a  telegram  into  Ames'  hand.  It  proved  to 
be  from  James  Cartwright  Smith,  and  requested 
an  immediate  interview  with  Mr.  Carveth. 

"He'll  take  the  first  train  to  town?"  asked 
Ames. 

"I  have  just  sent  Mr.  Carveth's  answer.  He 
will  see  Mr.  Smith — here,"  said  McPherson. 


WILLIE  183 

The  next  morning,  when  Smith  descended  from 
his  car,  Ames  was  on  the  platform,  but  as  the 
News  man  advanced  toward  him  the  party  leader 
shook  his  head. 

"Nothing  doing,  Ames,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  know  but  you'd  come  down  to  see 
Carveth,"  insinuated  Ames. 

"Carveth,  Carveth?  Oh,  yes — merely  a  coin 
cidence;"  and  he  turned  away  to  enter  the  coach. 

"Interesting,  but  not  true,"  murmured  Ames. 
He  let  the  coach  drive  off  and  then  set  out  briskly 
in  pursuit. 

Reaching  the  hotel,  he  hurried  up-stairs  to  a 
room  on  the  second  floor  that  immediately  ad 
joined  the  one  occupied  by  Mr.  Carveth.  There 
was  a  connecting  door.  Over  this  door  was  a 
transom  and  below  the  transom  Ames  had  placed 
a  table,  on  the  table  a  rug,  and  on  the  rug  a  chair. 

"I  interpreted  your  wire  as  signifying  your 
willingness  to  accept  the  nomination  at  the  hands 
of  the  party  organization,"  Smith  was  saying  as 
Ames  mounted  to  his  post. 

"Well — yes,"  answered  the  creator  of  the  Ply 
mouth  Rock  Dollar  Shirt  cautiously. 

"We're  going  to  read  Dick  Pogue  out  of  meet 
ing,  Mr.  Carveth;  he's  been  fed  from  the  public 
crib  about  long  enough.  I  suppose  youVe  seen 
in  the  Washington  despatches  that  Senator  Burke 
is  ill?  One  of  the  first  jobs  the  next  governor 
will  have  will  be  to  appoint  his  successor." 


184        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"That's  so;  but  you  ain't  told  me  where  the 
hitch  comes  in." 

"Ain't  I?"  rasped  out  the  boss.  "It's  just  here: 
Pogue's  got  his  eye  on  his  brother  for  the  place, 
yet  when  Burke  was  made  senator  it  was  agreed 
I  was  to  follow  him.  Isn't  it  plain  to  you  why 
I  came  down  here?  I  want  your  word  that  I'm 
to  succeed  Burke;  then  I'll  shake  hands  with  the 
next  governor." 

"When  it's  business  I'll  dicker  for  anything  I 
can  swap,  use  myself,  or  give  away;  but  I  got  a 
different  feeling  about  politics,"  remarked  Mr. 
Carveth. 

This  came  with  such  a  shock  to  Ames  that  he 
almost  fell  off  his  seat. 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Carveth,"  said  Smith  pleas 
antly.  "But  a  few  pledges " 

"I  won't  promise  nothin',"  said  Jeremiah  Car 
veth  with  sudden  stubbornness.  "If  I  go  to  office 
I'm  going  there  a  free  man.  Otherwise  Marys- 
ville's  good  enough  for  me." 

"Not  pledged  in  any  offensive  sense,  Mr.  Car 
veth,"  Smith  urged.  "We  would  never  attempt 
to  dictate  a  course  of  action  to  you " 

"I  guess  you  wouldn't — more  than  once,"  said 
Carveth  shortly. 

Mr.  Smith  gasped  audibly,  and  Ames  surmised 
he  was  hearing  the  distant  roar  of  the  convention, 
the  first  rumble  of  that  landslide  he  had  prema 
turely  set  going,  which  was  to  bury  Slippery  Dick 
while  it  uncovered  Jeremiah  Carveth. 


WILLIE  185 

"I'm  offering  you  the  place  at  the  head  of  the 
ticket,"  began  Smith  quietly.  "That's  tantamount 
to  election;  all  I  want  is  your  promise  that  if 
Burke  dies  you'll  appoint  me  to  fill  out  his 
term " 

"Ain't  you  read  any  of  my  speeches?"  asked 
Carveth.  "Haven't  you  noticed  that  I  take  pretty 
firm  ground  in  the  matter  of  boss  rule?  Mr. 
Smith,  you're  the  last  man  I'd  ever  think  of  mak 
ing  senator.  I  don't  want  to  seem  rude,  but,  well, 
I've  told  you  Marysville's  good  enough  for  me." 

"Don't  worry;"  said  Smith.  "I  had  determined 
to  support  you;  I  could  not  imagine  that  you 
would  be  so  'blind  to  your  own  interests  as  not  to 
meet  me  half-way;  but  a  dozen  telegrams  will 
change  the  program — you'll  go  back  to  Marysville 
all  right." 

McPherson  had  slipped  from  the  room,  and 
Ames  abandoned  his  post  and  hurried  in  pursuit. 
He  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  secretary's  long 
legs  vanishing  around  a  turn  in  the  corridor. 
Keeping  them  in  sight  he  descended  to  the  office 
floor.  McPherson  was  now  speaking  directly  to  the 
clerk. 

"Will  you  go  personally  to  Mr.  Carveth's  room 
and  interrupt  the  conference  there  between  him 
and  Mr.  Smith?  Mr.  Smith  wishes  particularly  to 
catch  the  eleven-ten  train." 

Ames  retired  to  the  check-room.  As  the  clerk's 
footsteps  died  out  in  the  hall  overhead,  he  heard 
a  chair  dragged  across  the  tessellated  floor,  and 


186        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

peering  out  from  his  place  of  hiding,  he  saw  Mc- 
Pherson  by  the  aid  of  this  chair  reach  the  office 
clock  and  resolutely  turn  the  hands  back  twenty 
minutes.  This  accomplished,  McPherson  took 
himself  into  the  open  air.  He  raced  down  the 
road  toward  the  telegraph  office.  Here  Ames 
found  him  fifteen  minutes  later  scribbling  away 
at  one  corner  of  the  operator's  deal  table.  He 
glanced  up  as  Ames  entered  the  room. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ames,"  he  said,  "look  from  the  win 
dow  and  tell  me  when  the  coach  from  the  hotel 
arrives."  Even  as  he  spoke  they  heard  the  shriek 
of  the  engine's  whistle.  McPherson  sighed  softly. 
"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Smith  has  missed  his  train,"  he 
said.  "And  I  think  he  was  quite  anxious  to 
catch  it." 

Twenty  minutes  slipped  by  and  there  was  a 
hasty  step  upon  the  threshold,  and  James  Cart- 
wright  Smith  burst  into  the  room. 

"Here,  rush  these  telegrams!"  he  roared,  and 
tossed  a  dozen  sheets  of  paper  in  front  of  the 
operator. 

"The  wire's  busy,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  McPherson 
mildly,  so  mildly  there  was  almost  a  touch  of  sad 
ness  in  his  tone. 

The  great  man  turned  to  the  operator. 

"Throw  this  stuff  out  of  the  window,  or  I  will, 
and  send  those  wires." 

McPherson  measured  the  politician  with  a  large 
prominent  eye,  then  he  said  in  a  tone  that  would 


WILLIE  187 

have  carried  conviction  to  a  less  excited  man 
than  Smith: 

"If  you  do  that,  you'll  go  after  it,  and  it's  twenty 
feet  to  the  ground." 

For  answer  Smith  made  a  grab  at  the  pile  of 
copy  in  front  of  the  operator.  McPherson  shot 
up  to  his  full  height  of  six  feet,  and  extending  a 
long  arm,  seized  him  by  the  wrist. 

"It's  twenty  feet  to  the  ground,  Mr.  Smith," 
he  remonstrated.  Smith  swung  about  on  his  heel. 

"How  can  I  get  away  from  here,  Ames?"  he 
asked. 

"You'll  have  to  wait  until  eleven-ten  to-mor 
row,"  said  Ames  cheerfully.  The  leader  groaned 
aloud.  "Come,"  Ames  added,  "you  go  to  the 
hotel  with  me,  and  we'll  be  back  here  after  lunch." 
But  once  he  had  coaxed  Smith  back  to  The  Pines, 
he  abandoned  him  and  hurried  again  to  the  tele 
graph  office. 

"See  here,  McPherson,"  he  expostulated,  "it's 
all  right  where  Smith  is  concerned,  but  how  about 
me?" 

"I'd  love  to  oblige  you,  Mr.  Ames;  later,  per 
haps." 

"But  that  won't  do  any  good,"  urged  Ames  im 
patiently. 

"No,  I  suppose  not,  since  the  News  is  an  eve 
ning  paper." 

"And  what's  the  Clarion?" 

"Semi-weekly,"  said  the  secretary  pleasantly. 


188        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

The  secretary  wrote  telegrams  to  the  Clarion 
until  he  wearied  of  that  pastime;  then  he  began 
to  tear  pages  out  of  his  copy  of  Emerson.  Inci 
dentally  he  and  Ames  had  passed  to  a  state  of 
siege.  It  became  necessary  to  spike  the  office 
door  fast  to  the  jamb  to  keep  out  James  Cart- 
wright  Smith,  who,  supported  by  a  bell  boy  and 
the  night  watchman  from  The  Pines,  had  estab 
lished  himself  in  the  narrow  hall,  where  he  kept 
the  air  thick  with  threats  and  curses. 

Six  o'clock  came  and  McPherson  was  still  flash 
ing  the  Concord  sage's  wisdom  into  Marysville. 
Mr.  Smith  was  still  on  the  stairs,  but  the  boss  no 
longer  swore  nor  threatened;  his  tone  was  one  of 
entreaty,  his  words  abject.  Two  hours  later  and 
he  was  offering  McPherson  any  sum  he  chose  to 
name  for  five  minutes'  use  of  the  wire.  At  ten 
o'clock  he  was  heard  to  descend  the  stairs  and 
pass  up  the  road  in  the  direction  of  The  Pines; 
whereupon  Ames  knocked  the  spikes  out  of  the 
jamb  and  opened  the  office  door  on  a  sleeping 
world;  then  he  turned  to  McPherson. 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  hold  on  to  your 
end  of  the  wire  until  the  convention  adjourns?" 
he  observed.  The  secretary  nodded  and  flipped  a 
fresh  page  of  Emerson  across  the  table. 

"Wait  a  bit,  boss,"  said  the  operator.  "I  got  to 
take  off  a  message  for  you." 

The  message  was  from  the  leader  of  the  Car- 
veth  delegation.  As  McPherson  slowly  absorbed 


WILLIE  189 

its  meaning  a  smile  of  intense  satisfaction  over 
spread  his  features.  He  passed  it  on  to  Ames, 
who  read:  "Carveth  nominated.  Hip — hip — hur 
rah!" 

"This  means  a  great  deal  to  me,  Mr.  Ames," 
said  McPherson  softly.  "Indeed,  it  means  every 
thing."  Quite  unconsciously  he  had  slipped  his 
hand  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  Ames 
caught  sight  of  the  plush  frame  that  held  Miss 
Carveth's  picture. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT 

ON    the    street    some    one    had    handed    Mike 
Feeny  an  oblong  of  pasteboard.     Mr.  Feeny 
stoked  with  the  Gulf  and  Mexican  Transportation 
Line. 

"Is  it  a  ticket  to  a  show?"  he  asked,  removing 
his  pipe. 

"It  is;  go  on  in  and  enjoy  yourself."  And  the 
donor  laughed.  He  was  a  pleasant-looking  young 
fellow  in  evening  dress,  much  like  the  young  fel 
lows  Mr.  Feeny  sometimes  saw  on  the  awning- 
covered  promenade  deck. 

"I'm  beholden  to  you/'  said  he,  being  a  person 
of  manners  when  sober. 

And  pocketing  his  blackened  pipe,  he  strode  into 
the  brilliant  foyer  of  the  Music  Hall  where  the 
many  lights  fully  disclosed  him  as  a  stoop-shoul 
dered  man  of  large  muscular  development,  clothed 
in  respectable  shore-going  garments  recently  pur 
chased  at  a  bargain  of  a  Jewish  gentleman  on  the 
river-front.  A  great  shock  of  violently  red  hair 
formed  an  aureole  about  his  long  sad  face,  and 
the  drooping  ends  of  a  blond  mustache  reached 
well  back  toward  the  freckled  lobes  of  his  ears. 
Mr.  Feeny  was  strictly  Irish,  with  the  large  poten 
tialities  of  his  race. 

190 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    191 

Now  Mr.  Feeny  did  not  know  that  the  Inter 
national  Congress  of  Economics  had  assembled 
there  to  give  expert  testimony,  and  charting  a 
careful  course  in  new  shoes  that  pinched  some 
what,  he  followed  the  trickle  of  well-dressed  hu 
manity  into  the  building,  where  an  usher  showed 
him  to  an  aisle  seat  in  the  last  row  of  orchestra 
chairs.  The  orchestra  was  finishing  a  classic 
prelude.  This  first  attracted  Mr.  Feeny's  atten 
tion.  It  was  displeasing  to  his  musical  tastes, 
and  he  remarked  in  a  husky  whisper  to  the  gen 
tleman  on  his  left : 

"Say,  buddy,  them  fiddles  is  on  the  bum " 

"Hush !"  said  the  gentleman,  raising  a  warning 
finger. 

"What  for  should  I  hush?"  demanded  Mr. 
Feeny.  "Cheese  it  yourself!" 

Feeling  the  incident  closed,  Mr.  Feeny's  glance 
shifted  in  the  direction  of  the  stage,  where  a  num 
ber  of  men  and  women  were  seated  in  a  wide  half 
circle. 

"'Tis  a  white-faced  minstrel  show!  But,  oh, 
heavens,  ain't  them  girls  the  hard-featured  huz 
zies?"  thought  Mr.  Feeny. 

A  gentleman  had  risen  and  was  making  a  few 
introductory  remarks,  the  exact  drift  of  which 
was  lost  on  Mr.  Feeny,  but  as  he  subsided,  his 
place  was  taken  by  another  gentleman  who  smil 
ingly  acknowledged  the  decorous  ripple  of  ap 
plause  his  name  had  evoked.  He  commenced  to 


192        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

speak  and  Mr.  Feeny  gave  him  his  undivided  at 
tention. 

"He's  a  grand  flow  of  words.  I  wonder  he 
don't  choke,"  was  his  mental  comment. 

Eventually  he  became  aware  that  he  was  lis 
tening  to  an  account  of  the  decay  of  the  cottage 
industries  of  France.  Laboriously  following  the 
speaker  he  possessed  himself  of  this  concrete  fact 
in  segments  and  was  moved  to  instant  contempt 
of  the  speaker's  conclusions.  He  had  never  no 
ticed  this  decay  in  industry;  his  personal  obser 
vations  led  him  to  believe  that  while  jobs  were 
sometimes  hard  to  obtain,  there  was  always  plenty 
of  work  after  you  got  them. 

He  prepared  to  quit  that  spot  with  expedition, 
since  he  felt  that  any  more  economics  would  con 
stitute  a  surfeit.  But  as  he  slid  from  his  chair,  the 
first  gentleman  advanced  again  to  the  center  of 
the  stage,  and  Mr.  Feeny  caught  a  name  he  knew, 
the  magical  name  of  MacCandlish. 

"I'll  see  the  next  turn,"  he  told  himself,  as  amidst 
a  perfect  storm  of  applause  a  cheerful  little  man 
of  a  portly  presence  approached  the  footlights. 

"It's  him  all  right,  I  seen  him  onct  through  the 
bull's-eye  window  of  the  smoking-room  afore  the 
mate  cussed  me  out  forward, — and  him  worth  his 
hundred  millions!"  Mr.  Feeny  breathed  hard. 

There  was  the  hush  of  expectancy.  The  little 
man  smiled  kindly,  tolerantly,  while  the  lights 
seemed  to  cast  a  golden  halo  about  him. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    193 

"It  is  my  privilege  to  appear  before  this  con 
gress  to  speak  on  the  uses  of  wealth,"  he  began 
in  a  soft  purring  voice.  "And  I  only  regret  that 
I  have  not  had  the  leisure  in  which  to  prepare  a 
paper  on  so  interesting  a  theme.  However — a 

few  thoughts  occur  to  me "  Mr.  MacCandlish 

paused  for  a  brief  space,  and  then  once  more 
that  kindly  voice  flowed  across  the  footlights. 
"It  has  always  been  my  conviction  that  those  who 
have  lacked  the  opportunity  to  examine  the  op 
erations  of  wealth  are  frequently  led  astray.  In 
the  first  place,  riches  are  invariably  the  direct  re 
sult  of  great  economic  services  undertaken  for  the 
good  of  mankind!" — and  thus  launched,  Mr.  Mac 
Candlish  began  to  deal  not  with  the  dead  and  dry 
of  theories  and  panaceas,  but  with  the  living 
actualities  of  trade  and  production. 

"Ain't  it  grand  what  the  likes  of  him  does  for 
the  likes  of  me!"  thought  Mr.  Feeny  in  a  pause, 
and  then  again  that  soft  voice  opened  up  fresh 
regions  for  him. 

He  saw  that  what  Mr.  MacCandlish  called  the 
law  of  supply  and  demand — which  he  seemed  to 
hold  in  the  very  tenderest  regard — regulated 
things.  He  saw,  too,  that  millionaires  were  only 
far-sighted  individuals  who  had  mastered  the  fact 
that  what  the  world  tossed  aside  to-day  it  would 
urgently  need  to-morrow,  and  garnered  this  waste, 
exacting  a  small  margin  of  profit  for  the  service. 

"It's  great !"  Mr.  Feeny  told  himself  in  a  spent 


194        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

whisper.  "I  go  somewhere  as  far  as  I  can  get, 
and  raise  things — no  matter  what — and  then  one 
of  these  here  capitalists  comes  along  and  says: 
'Feeny,  me  boy,  how  are  your  crops?  I've  one 
end  of  a  thousand  miles  of  railroad  track  at  your 
front  gate  for  to  haul  'em  away  with.'  No  won 
der  they're  well  paid  .  .  .  'tis  right  they  should 
be, — I  begrudge  'em  nothing." 

"And  after  all" — it  was  Mr.  MacCandlish  speak 
ing — "let  us  see  what  actual  advantages  the  mil 
lionaire  has,  what  does  his  money  buy  him  in  ex 
cess  of  what  another  may  have?  A  little  better 
shelter  perhaps,  more  costly  clothes,  and  his  three 
meals  a  day!" 

"Tis  true,"  thought  Mr.  Feeny.  "They'd  bust 
if  they  et  oftener,  the  way  they  feed;  and  as  for 
clothes,  I've  seen  their  lady  friends  with  far  less 
on  than  a  workin'  man's  wife'd  think  decent." 

Mr.  Feeny  had  entered  that  building  a  rather 
heedless  person  who  got  drunk  at  every  port  of 
call,  and  who  knew  the  inside  of  every  calaboose 
in  every  flea-bitten  center  of  civilization  along  the 
Caribbean,  but  he  was  to  quit  it  a  groping  intel- 
lectualist  with  a  germ  lodged  in  his  brain  that 
was  to  fructify. 

Mr.  Feeny  boarded  the  Orinoco  of  the  Gulf  and 
Mexican  Transportation  Line  a  chastened  spirit. 
His  last  hours  ashore,  and  the  last  of  his  wages, 
had  been  spent  in  a  second-hand  book-shop  where 
he  had  acquired  three  books  that,  under  various 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    195 

titles,  dealt  with  the  burning  question  of  why  the 
other  fellow  happens  to  have  it  all;  a  condition 
that  is  much  older  than  political  economy,  just  as 
language  is  older  than  grammar.  Now  the  Ori 
noco,  newly  scraped  and  painted  as  to  staterooms 
and  gilded  saloons  where  the  eye  and  foot  of  Mr. 
Feeny  never  penetrated,  had  been  chartered  for  a 
mid-winter  cruise.  Mr.  Feeny  heard  this  directly 
from  one  of  his  mates,  Tom  Murphy,  who  had  it 
from  an  oiler,  who  had  it  from  the  second  assist 
ant  engineer. 

"It's  a  party  of  magnates,"  he  explained. 
"We're  to  have  close  on  to  a  billion  dollars  aboard, 
— live  weight,  you  understand.  MacCandlish,  the 
big  railroad  man — you've  heard  of  him  in  the 
papers,  Feeny — is  one  of  the  bunch,  and  they've 
got  a  Protestant  bishop  along, — but  I  don't  think 
much  of  the  likes  of  him!"  In  theory,  at  least, 
Mr.  Murphy  was  an  ardent  churchman. 

"For  what  are  they  usin'  this  old  hooker?"  de 
manded  Feeny. 

"They're  goin'  down  to  have  a  look  at  mines  in 
Mexico,"  said  Murphy. 

Mr.  Feeny 's  first  keen  lust  for  wisdom  survived 
the  days  of  heavy  toil  that  were  his  portion. 

"But  I've  read  hotter  stuff,"  he  told  himself 
one  black  night  when  he  had  been  at  sea  ten  days. 
He  lay  in  his  bunk  and  listened  to  the  heavy  seas 
break  under  the  Orinoco's  quarter.  This  was  va- 


196        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ried  by  mighty  shivers  when  the  racing  screw 
fanned  the  air.  And  then  suddenly  it  was  as  if 
tons  and  tons  of  water  with  the  weight  of  lead, 
and  driven  by  some  vast  power,  had  dropped  on 
the  Orinoco.  Mr.  Feeny  sprang  from  his  bunk. 
His  first  instinct  was  to  rush  for  the  deck,  but 
thoughts  of  his  mates  in  the  stoke-hole  sent  him 
down  the  iron  ladders  that  gave  access  to  the 
vitals  of  the  ship.  As  he  gained  the  engine-room, 
the  stokers  burst  out  of  their  steel-walled  pen, 
and  after  them  came  a  rush  of  steam. 

"All  out?"  roared  Feeny. 

"All  out,"  some  one  bellowed  in  return,  and 
they  began  swarming  up  the  ladders,  Feeny  leap 
ing  from  round  to  round  in  advance.  At  last, 
spent  and  breathless,  they  issued  into  the  black 
night. 

Then  came  a  second  shock.  A  mighty  sea  lifted 
the  Orinoco,  three  thousand  tons  of  steel  and 
wood,  and  tossed  her  like  a  cork  against  some 
thing  that  did  not  yield  to  the  terrific  impact. 
Mr.  Feeny  picked  himself  up  from  among  his  fel 
lows. 

"She's  aground, — and  no  thanks  to  her!"  he 
bawled. 

"The  crew's  gone  with  the  boats!"  said  some 
one  in  his  ear. 

"Is  that  you,  Tom  Murphy?  Let's  see  what's 
come  of  the  millionaires!" 

Mr.    Feeny,    chastely    garmented    in    an    under- 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    197 

shirt,  and  with  a  wind-blown  halo  of  red  hair,  in 
vaded  the  smoking-room.  His  mates,  naked  to 
the  waist  and  grimy  from  their  toil,  but  showing 
patches  of  white  skin  here  and  there  where  the 
waves  had  touched  them,  slouched  at  his  heels. 
They  found  that  Capital  was  just  getting  on  its 
feet.  MacCandlish,  his  ruddy  cheeks  the  color  of 
Carrara  marble,  was  crawling  out  from  under  a 
table  where  he  had  been  thrown;  the  others  of  his 
party  were  variously  scattered  about  the  room. 

"Yer  left,"  said  Feeny  dispassionately.  "Like 
us,  yer  left, — for  the  captain's  gone  with  his  crew. 
I'd  recommend  you  lifted  the  large  armchair  off 
the  stomach  of  the  fat  gentleman  on  the  floor  in 
the  corner,  he's  breathing  hard  and  quite  purple," 
and  Mr.  Feeny  having  thus  delivered  himself, 
withdrew  with  his  mates. 

;"Twas  a  shame  for  the  captain  to  leave  'em. 
I  hope  he  drowns  ..."  said  Feeny.  "For  duty's 
duty, — which  reminds  me  that  I'm  the  oldest  man 
in  the  stoke-hole  with  more  tons  of  coal  to  my 
credit  than  you'll  equal  even  if  you're  given  length 
of  days,  so  I'll  serve  notice  on  ye,  one  and  all, — 
I'm  skipper!" 

A  wan  light  was  lifting  out  of  the  east.  It 
spread  over  the  tossing  seas  and  under  the  low 
ragged  clouds  that  the  gale  sent  hurrying  into  the 
south. 

"There's  land !"  cried  Mr.  Feeny.  Peering 
through  the  saline  reek  of  the  storm,  they  saw 


198         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

first  a  narrow  spit  of  land,  and  here  and  there  a 
stunted  palmetto.  Then  as  the  light  spread, 
higher  ground,  dense  with  a  tropic  growth;  while 
beyond  was  the  sea  again,  a  long  restless  line  of 
blue  that  backed  against  the  horizon. 

Mr.  MacCandlish  and  his  friends  issued  from 
the  saloon  and  worked  their  way  along  the  bul 
wark  to  the  group  of  stokers. 

"Well?"  said  the  millionaire,  and  he  addressed 
himself  to  Feeny. 

"I'm  thinking,  sir,  we'd  best  leave  the  old  hook 
er  when  the  sea  ca'ms  down  a  bit.  Yonder's  one 
of  the  life-boats  hanging  to  its  davits.  Presently 
we'll  h'ist  it  over  the  side  and  go  ashore,"  said 
Feeny. 

"Then  you  don't  think  we  are  in  any  imminent 
peril?"  asked  Mr.  MacCandlish. 

"That  feelin'  you  got  comes  mainly  from  an 
empty  stomach,"  said  Mr.  Feeny  soothingly. 
"Here,  Tom  Murphy !  you  see  if  you  can  get 
these  gentlemen  their  breakfast."  He  himself 
went  below  and  accumulated  a  pair  of  trousers. 

Then  under  his  immediate  direction  breakfast 
was  served  in  the  saloon,  while  the  stokers  brows 
ed  about  the  forward  deck.  With  hot  coffee  life 
took  on  a  changed  aspect;  also  Mr.  Feeny's  as 
sured  manner  and  the  close  proximity  of  the  island 
combined  to  contribute  their  measure  of  hope  to 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  all.  It  was  mid-morning, 
however,  before  Mr.  Feeny  declared  it  was  not 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    199 

too  great  a  hazard  to  attempt  a  landing,  and  to 
his  "Easy,  Murphy  .  .  .  easy,  I  say,  Tom  Mur 
phy  .  .  .  Easy!"  in  a  rising  crescendo,  the  boat 
dropped  into  the  water. 

"Hurroar!"  cried  Mr.  Feeny. 

"Well  done,  my  men ! — very  well  done,  indeed !" 
said  Mr.  MacCandlish. 

"Splendid,  true  lads, — all  of  them!"  murmured 
the  bishop. 

"If  you'll  step  lively,  sir,  we'll  have  you  dry 
shod  on  terry-firmy  in  a  jiffy!"  said  Feeny. 

Within  an  hour  after  they  had  effected  a  land 
ing  it  had  been  definitely  ascertained  that  the  is 
land  was  not  inhabited. 

"That  bein'  the  case,"  said  Mr.  Feeny,  "I  think 
I  would  best  put  the  b'ys  to  work  fetchin*  off  sup 
plies.  What  do  you  think,  sir?" 

"Oh,  by  all  means."  It  was  Mr.  MacCandlish 
who  answered  him.  He  and  his  friends  were 
peacefully  resting  in  the  shade  of  a  group  of 
palms.  "And  will  you  have  an  eye  to  our  personal 
belongings?  Our  trunks  and  hand-bags,  I  mean?" 

"I'll  have  them  fetched  off  immediate,"  said  Mr. 
Feeny. 

All  that  afternoon  he  and  his  mates  tugged  at 
boxes  and  bales,  or  sweated  at  the  oars.  At  dusk 
they  stopped  for  a  bite  to  eat,  and  to  rig  up  a 
shelter  of  awnings  for  the  millionaires. 

"Fm  doubtful  about  the  weather,"  Mr.  Feeny 
explained  as  he  came  up  from  the  boat,  his  shoul- 


200        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ders  piled  high  with  mattresses.  "And  bein'  as 
there's  a  full  moon  to-night,  we'll  just  bring  off 
what  more  of  the  stores  we  can." 

And  at  midnight  when  Mr.  MacCandlish  strolled 
out  under  the  tropic  moon  for  a  last  look  about 
before  turning  in,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Feeny 
and  the  voices  of  Feeny's  mates  as  they  raged  at 
their  work.  If  the  stokers  slept  that  night,  none 
of  the  millionaires  could  have  told  the  space  of 
time  Mr.  Feeny  allotted  to  them  for  repose;  for 
in  the  rosy  dawn,  when  they  ran  down  to  the 
shore  for  a  plunge  in  the  surf,  there  midway  be 
tween  the  wreck  and  the  island  was  the  life-boat 
piled  high  with  stores.  And  all  that  day  the  work 
went  on  without  pause.  Only  Murphy,  with  fry 
ing  pan  and  coffee  pot,  snatched  a  few  moments 
from  his  toil  to  minister  to  the  comfort  of  the 
party  under  the  awnings. 

That  night  the  wind  slued  round  to  the  south 
and  blew  a  gale ;  and  when  morning  broke,  the 
Orinoco  had  vanished  finally  from  the  sight  of 
men. 

"'Tis  organization  I'm  teachin'  the  b'ys,"  ex 
plained  Mr.  Feeny. 

"Ah!  .  .  .  organization,"  said  Mr.  MacCandlish. 

"I've  knowed  about  it  since  that  night  in  New 
York  when  I  heard  you  give  'em  the  talk  in  the 
theayter.  It  was  great !" 

"Were  you  there,  Feeny?"  asked  MacCandlish. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    201 

This  was  the  most  subtle  flattery  he  had  ever 
known. 

"Was  I  there?  Drunk  or  sober,  it  was  Mike 
Feeny's  best  day  ashore !  I  been  a  understandin', 
reasonin'  man  ever  since  I  listened  to  you.  Sup 
ply  and  demand, — the  problem  of  civilization,  the 
problem  of  distribution, — bearin'  this  in  mind  I've 
divided  the  work.  Tom  Murphy's  something  of  a 
cook,  so  I've  app'inted  him  to  the  grub  division, 
with  Sullivan  and  the  Portuguese  to  help.  Corri- 
gan,  and  Pete,  the  Swede,  will  bring  our  supplies 
up  as  we  need  'em  from  the  point  where  the  sal 
vage  is  stored.  And  I've  put  O'Hara  to  oysterin* 
for  the  good  of  the  community.  The  other  lads 
will  work  as  comes  handiest." 

"You  are  showing  excellent  judgment,  my 
man,"  said  MacCandlish  warmly. 

Just  at  dusk  that  night,  Mr.  Feeny,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  stokers,  hoisted  a  queer-looking  flag 
down  by  the  camp  where  he  and  his  mates  lived. 
Then  standing  with  bared  head  beneath  the  flut 
tering  pennant,  he  said: 

"I  pronounce  these  here  the  United  States  of 
Ireland!  ...  In  conference  with  Mister  Murphy, 
I've  decided  on  a  Declaration  of  Independence 
and  a  Constitution  which  you  can  ask  about  if 
you're  at  all  curious.  If  you  ain't — I'll  say  this 
much  for  it, — we're  opposed  to  anarchy,  com 
munism  and  socialism.  We  believe  in  the  sacred 
rights  of  property — which  is  only  another  name 


202        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

for  salvage.  We  believe,  too,  that  the  law  of  sup 
ply  and  demand  is  a  great  law,  and  well  adapted 
for  to  take  healthy  root  in  this  climate.  We  will 
now  proceed  to  vote  for  Mike  Feeny  for  presi 
dent  ;  Tom  Murphy,  police  judge ;  Jack  Corrigan, 
alderman;  and  Pete,  the  Swede,  cop.  'Tis  right 
the  foreigners  we  have  should  hold  some  of  the 
jobs.  And  now  the  elections  bein'  happily  over, 
we'll  just  leave  the  public  at  large  to  discover 
what's  been  done  for  to  make  life  brighter  and 
easier  for  it." 

Knowing  nothing  of  those  vicissitudes  through 
which  the  island  was  passing,  the  public  slept 
soundly,  and  after  a  refreshing  plunge  in  the  sea 
was  ready  for  breakfast.  But  no  smiling  Murphy 
appeared.  No  Sullivan  and  no  Portuguese  came 
to  do  its  bidding.  Presently  Mr.  Feeny  hove  in 
sight  swinging  along  the  sands. 

"Hurroar!"  he  cried.  "We're  organized, — com 
pletely  organized !  The  law  of  supply  and  demand 
had  adjusted  herself  to  her  surroundings,  and 
Mike  Feeny's  the  student  of  political  economy 
what's  done  it !" 

"Eh?  What's  all  this,  Feeny?  And  what's 
become  of  that  loafer  Murphy?"  demanded  Mr. 
MacCandlish. 

"You  go  down  with  me  to  the  new  hotel  tent, 
the  St.  Murphy-Feeny  we  call  it,  to  typify  the 
spiritual  as  well  as  the  spirituous  needs  of  man. 
Cooks  is  scarce, — they  perform  a  necessary  and 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    203 

useful  function.  So  do  waiters, — pickin'  up  food 
in  the  kitchen  and  distributin'  it  under  the  pa'ms. 
I  hope  you  have  your  wads  handy,  for  Mister 
Murphy's  now  doin'  a  cash  business.  Says  he: 
'We're  a  prosperous  people.  Things  is  naturally 
high;  they'll  be  higher  yet,  by  the  grace  of  Heav 
en!'" 

"What  is  this  crazy  drivel?"  said  MacCandlish 
petulantly. 

"Why  hasn't  breakfast  been  served  us?"  in 
quired  the  bishop,  with  marked  asperity  of  man 
ner.  Feeny  had  fallen  in  his  esteem. 

"I  am  telling  you  what  Mister  Murphy  says 
down  at  the  Murphy-Feeny.  Says  he:  'Them 
great  staples,  Scotch  whisky  and  bottled  beer,  is 
scarce,  while  such  luxuries  as  bread  and  tinned 
stuff  is  reasonably  abundant  but  firm  in  price, 
with  every  indication  of  a  sharp  advance.  But/ 
says  he,  'the  per  capita  wealth  of  this  nation's 
phenomenal,  and  it's  evenly  distributed — or  will 
be  in  the  near  future/  ' 

Mr.  MacCandlish's  brother-in-law  laughed  aloud 
at  this.  Since  his  marriage  to  the  millionaire's 
sister,  prices  had  not  greatly  troubled  him;  the 
cost  of  living  could  soar  or  sink,  it  was  all  one, 
and  this  cheerful  optimism  had  packed  the  fat  on 
his  ample  frame.  But  Mr.  MacCandlish's  business 
associates  were  built  on  more  meager  lines,  and 
were  of  sterner  stuff.  They  had,  when  expedient, 
ordered  shut-downs  and  lock-outs  with  entire  com- 


204        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

posure;  and  they  had  not  scorned  to  profit  by 
short  crops  to  boost  the  price  of  bread.  But 
MacCandlish  shook  his  head.  Feeny  continued: 

"I've  vaccinated  this  coal-heavin'  bunch  with 
this  here  political  economy  serum,  and  it's  took 
with  every  mother's  son  of  'em.  They  were  ig 
norant  cusses  five  days  back,  but  now  they  are 
practical  men  of  affairs." 

"If  this  is  a  joke — "  began  Mr.    MacCandlish. 

"Do  I  look  like  I'd  joke?"  demanded  Mr.  Feeny. 
"It's  system  I'm  telling  you  about, — the  elimina 
tion  of  haphazard  methods  of  distribution,  for  one 
thing.  Now  there's  Corrigan,  a  husky  lad  with 
a  good  back  and  a  strong  pair  of  arms,  him  and 
Pete,  the  Swede,  has  become  common  carriers 
for  the  good  of  all, — you'll  find  none  commoner 
anywhere.  The  Portuguese's  buildin'  a  fence 
about  the  bananas  and  cocoanuts  preparatory  to 
puttin'  a  price  on  'em.  He's  a  taste  for  farmin' 
and  is  aimin'  to  develop  the  natural  resources  of 
this  island.  By  the  same  token,  Corrigan's  gone 
into  the  poultry  business  with  them  turtles,  and 
O'Hara's  adopted  the  oyster  beds.  He  says 
there's  a  future  in  oysters.  He  looks  for  a  short 
crop,  as  he's  got  no  gum  boots  and  is  timid  about 
gettin'  his  feet  wet, — but  with  prices  fair,  and 
constantly  tendin'  higher  round  the  R  in  Feb 
ruary." 

They  had  reached  what  Mr.  Feeny  called  the 
hotel  tent.  The  Orinoco's  awnings  had  been  used 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    205 

with  admirable  effect,  and  across  the  front  of  the 
canvas  edifice  was  displayed  a  sign  with  letters 
two  feet  high,  "St.  Murphy-Feeny.  European 
Plan."  The  humor  of  the  situation  seemed  lost 
on  Mr.  MacCandlish  and  his  party;  only  the  stout 
brother-in-law  laughed,  but  a  hostile  glance  from 
the  eye  of  a  friend  caused  him  to  repress  his 
mirth. 

"Mister  Murphy's  prepared  to  cater  for  you  at 
them  prices  that  has  the  indorsement  of  the  Hotel 
Trust,"  said  Mr.  Feeny. 

"I  denounce  this  as  an  iniquitous  outrage!  It's 
downright  piracy!"  sputtered  Mr.  MacCandlish, 
very  red  in  the  face. 

"Easy,"  said  Mr.  Feeny  soothingly.  "We 
made  a  fair  split  with  the  salvage,  but  feelin'  that 
you'd  prefer  to  have  the  whole  of  your  personal 
belongin's  we  let  'em  offset  the  ship's  stores. 
Now  do  you  be  reasonable !  Mr.  Murphy  says 
he'll  have  no  rough-house  for  his.  Any  man  that's 
white  and  willin'  to  behave  himself  can  feed  here. 
For  such  as  can't  conform  to  these  simple  rules, 
Pete,  the  Swede,  will  do  the  bouncin' ;  'twill  be 
one,  two,  three  and  out  ye  go  to  the  inquest.  I 
little  thought,  Mr.  MacCandlish,  sir,  I'd  have  to 
p'int  out  to  you  of  all  men  the  fairness  of  this 
arrangement,"  continued  Mr.  Feeny  severely. 
"Ain't  it  highly  necessary  you  should  be  fed  and 
looked  after?  You  can't  well  do  that  for  yourself, 
havin'  outgrowed  the  habit;  and  you're  too  busy 


206        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

playing  poker,  when  you  ain't  eatin'  and  sleepin', 
to  rightly  know  what  you  do  need— 

"Bridge!"  snapped  Mr.   MacCandlish. 

"It's  cards,  ain't  it?  Well,  the  b'ys  and  me 
have  agreed  to  take  the  job  of  caring  for  you  off 
your  hands.  Having  saved  the  salvage  from  the 
sea,  we  are  minded  to  turn  an  honest  penny  with 
it,  but  owin'  to  the  scarcity  of  the  necessities  of 
life  and  bein'  aware  that  none  know  better  than 
yourselves  that  the  value  of  a  thing  depends  on 
how  hard  it  is  to  get,  the  St.  Murphy-Feeny  will 
adopt  a  scale  of  prices  that  will  compare  favor 
ably  with  what  you're  used  to  in  New  York,  at 
them  places  that's  run  for  the  millionaire  trade. 
I've  heard  in  the  papers  of  your  eatin'  meals 
costin'  twenty  dollars  a  plate,  and  that  sometimes 
your  lady  friends  dissolves  pearls  and  di'monds  in 
the  apple  vinegar  for  to  take  away  that  cheap 
taste;  we  can't  give  you  di'monds  and  pearls,  nor 
yet  'lectric  lights,  but  we  can  give  you  prices — " 
Mr.  Feeny  rested  a  long  forefinger  against  the 
side  of  his  nose.  "Maybe  we  can  go  'em  one 
better — Mister  Murphy,  how  is  it  with  ham  and 
eggs  this  day?" 

"With   two   eggs?"   asked   Murphy. 

"With  two  eggs,"  said  Mr.  Feeny. 

"To  be  served  one  person?" 

"To  be  served  one  person.  I  hope  you'd  have 
too  much  self-respect  for  to  let  a  customer  split 
his  order!"  said  Mr.  Feeny. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    207 

"I  would, — I'd  bust  his  crust,"  said  Murphy. 
"Twenty  dollars  if  the  eggs  is  fried  on  one  side, 
thirty  dollars  if  they're  fried  on  both  sides.  The 
extra  labor  makes  this  slight  difference  in  price.  I 
would  mention,  too,  that  the  privilege  of  shakin' 
the  pepper  castor  onced  on  your  vittles  is  five 
dollars.  Rates  for  more  extended  service  on  ap 
plication." 

"Well,  no  one  has  to  eat  here  unless  he  wants 
to,"  said  Mr.  Feeny. 

"You  never  said  a  truer  word,  Mike  Feeny. 
They  can  go  hungry  if  they  like." 

Now  finance  is  a  big  subject,  but  Mr.  Feeny 
and  his  mates  attacked  it'  with  the  same  energy 
they  would  have  attacked  a  bunker  of  coal,  con 
sequently  prices  performed  miracles  in  the  way 
of  change;  but  as  Mr.  Feeny  had  prophesied,  they 
constantly  tended  higher;  also  their  prevalence 
was  wide-spread;  for  that  red-headed  student  of 
political  economy  resolutely  fixed  a  value  to  each 
service  and  to  every  necessity. 

At  first  MacCandlish  had  been  disposed  to  ne 
gotiate  checks,  with  the  disingenuous  intention  of 
later  stopping  payment  on  them,  but  Feeny  held 
out  firmly  for  cash. 

"When  that's  all  gone,  we'll  take  over  your 
paper,"  he  said.  "I'm  thinkin'  of  starting  a  bank 
for  to  accommodate  it;  but  as  long  as  your  money 
lasts  we'll  just  keep  on  doin*  a  nice  cash  business." 


208        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

And  MacCandlish  submitted,  but  with  a  very 
bad  grace,  to  what  he  regarded  as  the  iniquitous 
exactions  of  the  stokers.  Always  before  when 
prices  had  been  high,  he  had  directly  benefited; 
indeed,  high  prices  and  good  times  had  been  syn 
onymous  terms  with  him. 

It  was  an  added  strain  that  the  castaways  were 
his  guests.  Under  the  circumstances  it  required 
all  that  decision  of  character  for  which  he  was 
rightly  famous  to  suggest  that  they  stop  eating. 
But  he  pointed  out  that  if  they  did  this,  there 
must  come  inevitable  collapse  to  Feeny's  elab 
orate  commercial  system;  it  was  merely  a  matter 
of  principle,  he  explained;  and  early  one  morning 
he  led  his  friends  to  the  far  end  of  the  island, 
where  they  would  be  remote  from  temptation 
and  the  allurements  of  the  St.  Murphy-Feeny. 

"We'll  presently  bring  those  scoundrels  to  their 
senses,"  he  said.  "We'll  freeze  'em  out  and  dic 
tate  our  own  terms." 

"I  think  you've  managed  this  all  wrong!"  said 
his  brother-in-law  gloomily. 

"How  so?"  snapped  the  great  man. 

"I'd  have  started  the  boycott  after  breakfast. 
If  we  must  starve  for  a  principle,  I  for  one  should 
prefer  not  to  do  it  on  an  empty  stomach.  I've 
always  regarded  breakfast  as  a  most  important 
meal — the  keystone  of  the  day,  as  it  were.  No, 
certainly  I  should  not  think  of  beginning  to  go 
hungry  until  after  I  had  breakfasted, — it's  an 
awful  handicap!" 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT   209 

The  bishop  spoke  dreamily  of  lunch.  He  made 
it  clear  that  he  rather  sided  with  the  brother-in- 
law.  He  admitted  that  he  had  frequently  gone 
without  lunch;  it  could  be  managed  where  one  had 
anticipated  such  a  contingency — but  breakfast  and 
dinner — the  good  man  sighed  deeply. 

"You'll  probably  have  an  opportunity  to  try 
going  without  both,"  said  MacCandlish  tartly. 

The  bishop  groaned  outright  at  this,  and  fell 
to  gathering  wild  flowers  for  his  herbarium.  He 
wandered  farther  and  farther  afield  in  his  quest. 
After  a  time  the  brother-in-law  observed  that  he 
had  disappeared  along  the  sands.  A  gleam  of 
quiet  intelligence  flashed  from  his  eyes.  He  rose 
languidly  from  the  fallen  log  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting  and  sauntered  off  without  so  much  as 
a  glance  at  MacCandlish. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  demanded  MacCand 
lish  sharply. 

"I  am  going  to  look  for  the  bishop,"  said  his 
brother-in-law  with  dignity,  and  he,  too,  vanished 
along  the  sands. 

The  sun  soared  higher  and  higher  above  the 
palms  and  burned  splendidly  in  the  blue  western 
arch  of  the  heavens.  MacCandlish,  watching  its 
flight,  reflected  grimly  but  with  satisfaction  that 
he  had  shepherded  his  little  flock  safely  past  the 
luncheon  hour.  Presently  one  of  the  castaways 
expressed  great  anxiety  concerning  the  bishop, 
and  declared  his  purpose  of  going  immediately  in 
search  of  him.  Two  others  of  the  party  were 


210         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

quickened  to  sympathetic  interest  in  this  project 
and  announced  their  willingness  to  share  in  it. 

The  sun  sank  toward  the  heaving  restless  blue 
of  the  ocean.  In  distant  peaceful  centers  of  life, 
happy  millionaires  were  beginning  to  think  of 
dinner.  Realizing  this,  Mr.  MacCandlish  experi 
enced  a  poignant  moment,  and  felt  his  Spartan 
fortitude  go  from  him.  He  turned  to  speak  to  one 
of  his  friends,  and  discovered  that  he  was  entirely 
alone.  He  glanced  warily  about  him,  and  then 
stole  off  through  the  jungle  in  the  direction  of 
the  St.  Murphy-Feeny. 

He  was  not  wholly  surprised  when  he  found 
that  his  friends  had  preceded  him  thither.  They 
were  clustered  sadly  about  Mr.  Feeny,  who  was 
explaining  that  the  St.  Murphy-Feeny  was  tem 
porarily  closed  to  the  public. 

"They've  gone  on  a  strike,  the  b'ys  have.  Cap 
ital's  in  the  kitchen  and  labor's  out  under  the 
pa'ms,  both  full  of  principle  and  strong  drink.  It's 
a  private  matter  between  the  two,  only  it's  my 
belief  you'll  get  no  dinner  this  day.  'Compromise/ 
says  I  to  Murphy.  'Compromise — nothin'!'  says 
Murphy  to  me.  Til  teach  them  dogs  they  can't 
run  my  business, — it's  me  private  affair.'  'Think 
of  your  public,'  says  I.  'The  public  be  damned !' 
says  he.  And  there  you  are!  It's  the  conflict  of 
two  opposin'  ideas, — as  they  say  in  one  of  me 
books.  Just  like  it  is  when  the  trolley's  tied  up 
and  you  have  to  walk  five  miles  to  get  home." 


MR.  FEENY' S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT    211 

Mr.  Feeny  sighed.  "I'm  thinkin'  Mister  Murphy 
will  have  to  h'ist  his  prices  to  make  good  this 
day's  loss.  'Tis  wonderful  how  easy  political 
economy  is  to  learn  when  you  put  your  mind  to 
it  ...  but  dinner's  got  a  black  eye." 

"What's  the  row  about,  Feeny?"  asked  Mr. 
MacCandlish.  Hunger  tempered  the  visible  man 
ifestations  of  his  indignation,  but  a  hard  steely 
glitter  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  It  boded 
ill  for  Mr.  Feeny  when  they  left  that  island. 

"You  upset  the  delicate  balance  holdin'  supply 
and  demand  steady  on  their  jobs,  when  you  quit 
eatin'  this  mornin',  Mr.  MacCandlish.  It  imme- 
jiately  provoked  hard  feelin's  between  Mister 
Murphy  of  the  Hotel  Trust  and  Mr.  Sullivan  and 
the  Portuguese  of  the  Labor  Combine.  As  I've 
just  been  explainin'  to  your  friends, — I  hate  these 
strikes, — there's  the  loss  in  wages  to  labor,  and 
the  cripplin'  effect  on  capital.  The  Portuguese 
and  Mister  O'Hara  of  the  Oyster  Trust  are  figur 
ing  up  what  it's  cost  them,  and  Mister  Corrigan 
of  the  Poultry  Trust  is  hoppin'  mad.  Eggs  is  a 
natural  breakfast  food,  he  says,  and  he's  the 
heaviest  loser.  They  tell  me,  too,  that  he  so  far 
forgot  himself  as  to  put  his  foot  in  the  Swede's 
face,  closin'  one  eye  and  giving  his  nose  a  strong 
list  to  starboard.  Just  why  he  done  so  I  ain't 
rightly  learned,  but  it  must  have  been  along  of 
feelin'  peevish  about  the  outlook  for  the  poultry 
business.  You  see,  7  can  do  nothing, — and,  any- 


212         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

how,  I'm  thinkin'  of  foundin'  a  library  where  you 
can  go  for  to  improve  your  minds.  .  .  .  'The 
Feeny  Foundation, — Established  by  Michael 
Feeny,  1910.  A  University  of  the  People,  en 
dowed  by  Michael  Feeny/  Can  you  think  where 
the  name  could  be  introduced  again  without 
seemin'  a  mere  repetition?  Mister  Murphy's  de 
cided  to  have  a  'Ospital  for  his.  'What's  a  Cap 
tain  of  Industry  without  his  little  fad?'  says  he. 
'Vittles  may  cost  a  trifle  more,  but  I'll  have  my 
'Ospital/  he  says." 

Mr.  MacCandlish  had  forsaken  the  group  that 
clustered  about  Feeny,  and  stolen  to  the  back 
door  of  the  St.  Murphy-Feeny  with  burglarious 
intent;  but  he  heard  the  voices  of  men  within  and 
the  clink  of  glasses,  and  turned  mournfully  away. 
As  he  hid  so  his  glance  fell  on  Mister  Murphy's 
garbage  can.  In  that  instant  hunger  overcame 
him.  He  snatched  up  the  can  and  fled  with  it. 
He  had  almost  reached  a  sheltering  growth  of 
palms  when  Feeny  caught  sight  of  him  and  raised 
the  alarm. 

Mr.  MacCandlish's  Marathon  was  soon  run,  for 
as  he  bounded  into  the  bush  he  heard  Feeny  close 
at  his  heels,  and  a  second  later  the  stoker's  mus 
cular  hand  seized  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

"No  violence!"  panted  the  bishop,  as,  purple- 
faced,  he  gained  a  place  at  Feeny's  side. 

Mr.  Feeny  surveyed  the  millionaire  with  a 
glance  of  scornful  pity. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT  213 

"I  little  thought  that  you'd  be  the  first  to  ig 
nore  the  sacred  rights  of  property,  Mr.  Mac- 
Candlish,  sir,"  he  said.  "'Tis  no  excuse  that 
you're  hungry.  What's  moral  on  a  full  stomach 
remains  moral  on  a  empty  stomach.  The  eternal 
principles  of  right  and  wrong  ain't  made  to  fit 
the  shape  of  a  man's  belly, — and  the  likes  of  you 
.  .  .  the  friend  of  presidents  and  kings  ...  to 
swipe  a  garbage  can!"  concluded  Feeny,  but 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

In  the  golden  dawn  a  week  later,  a  rapturous 
shout  from  Mr.  MacCandlish  called  his  friends 
from  their  tent.  He  was  standing  on  the  beach, 
frozen  into  a  tense  and  rigid  attitude. 

"Look!"  he  gasped,  pointing. 

There,  anchored  off  the  end  of  the  island,  was  a 
small  and  dingy-looking  steamer,  but  the  sight  of 
it  gladdened  the  hearts  of  the  castaways.  Pajama 
clad,  they  cavorted  along  the  sands,  whooping 
gleefully.  Then,  as  they  rounded  a  wooded  point, 
they  came  on  the  stokers.  Near  at  hand  a  ship's 
boat  was  beached,  and  two  barelegged  sailors 
were  hunting  turtle  eggs;  while  a  third  stranger 
was  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  Feeny. 
Mr.  MacCandlish  swore. 

"My  dear  friend  .  .  .,"  admonished  the  bishop, 
greatly  shocked. 

"It's  an  English  tramp — the  Nairn"  said  Feeny 
pleasantly,  as  he  turned  toward  them.  "We  sight- 


214        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ed  her  along  afore  day  and  h'isted  signals.  This 
gentleman's  her  skipper.  He  was  bound  for  Para, 
but  he's  taken  a  fresh  charter  and'll  land  us  in 
New  York  inside  of  two  weeks,  barring  the  risk 
of  the  high  seas  and  the  acts  of  Providence — 
No,  no,  Mr.  MacCandlish,"  as  the  millionaire 
edged  toward  the  Nairn's  skipper,  "a  bargain's  a 
bargain, — and  the  contract's  signed.  The  ship's 
already  under  charter.  But  you'll  find  Mike 
Feeny  always  ready  for  to  do  business  when  he 
sees  a  chance  to  turn  an  honest  dollar.  I'm  as 
willin'  to  speculate  in  transportation  as  in  vittles. 
The  Nairn  ain't  a  Cunarder, — far  from  it, — but 
she'll  land  you  in  New  York  at  two  thousand  a 
head;  which  gives  us  a  nice  profit." 

Two  hours  later  the  Nairn  was  steaming  north, 
and  Feeny  was  watching  the  island  as  it  merged 
with  the  blue  obscurity  of  sky  and  sea;  while 
from  the  after  deck  Mr.  MacCandlish  cast  menac 
ing  glances  in  his  direction.  It  was  evident  that 
his  feelings  toward  that  self-taught  political  econo 
mist  were  unbenevolent  in  the  extreme.  Some 
where  about  him  was  concealed  much  cash,  and 
those  many,  many  checks,  which  he  intended  to 
recover  when  they  reached  New  York  and  he 
could  invoke  the  aid  of  the  law. 

Now  Mr.  Feeny  cherished  no  illusions  on  this 
point;  and  one  night,  as  the  Nairn  was  steaming 
up  the  Jersey  coast,  he  called  his  mates  about 
him. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT  215 

"I  misdoubt  me  philantrophic  friend,  Mr.  Mao 
Candlish.  He's  showin'  a  peevish  spirit,  I'm 
thinkin'.  After  all,  he's  no  real  political  econo 
mist,  but  just  a  cheap  skate  who's  played  a  sure 
thing  so  long  he's  got  no  sportin'  blood  left.  If 
we  put  them  bits  of  paper  in  at  the  bank  for  to 
take  our  money  out,  we'll  get  pinched  instead, — 
he  told  me  as  much." 

"What  might  you  have  it  in  your  mind  to  sug 
gest,  Mister  Feeny?"  asked  Mr.  Corrigan. 

"Go  to  some  tall  buildin'  on  Broadway,  and 
have  a  talk  with  one  of  them  big  lawyers." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  as  Mr.  Hargrew,  whose 
specialty  was  corporation  law,  was  glancing  over 
his  mail  the  next  morning,  a  low-voiced  clerk 
informed  him  that  one  Feeny  earnestly  desired 
speech  with  him. 

"He's  Irish,  and  has  a  couple  of  men  with  him. 
It  looks  like  the  executive  council  of  some  labor 
union,"  the  clerk  added. 

"Show  them  in,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Mornin',"  said  Mr.  Feeny. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Feeny's  me  name,  and  I'm  a  retired  Captain 
of  Industry  from  the  United  States  of  Ireland. 
If  you've  read  the  mornin'  papers  you've  seen 
how  that  other  great  Captain  of  Industry,  Mr. 
MacCandlish,  and  a  party  of  friends  was  picked 
up  off  an  island  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico." 

The  lawyer  nodded.' 


216        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Yes,  I've  read  about  that,"  he  said. 

"We  was  the  Orinoco's  coal  heavers.  It's  us 
that  saved  the  lives  of  them  babes  of  millionaires. 
We  stood  by  them  when  the  sailors  had  quit  the 
ship,  we  salvaged  the  wreck,  and  fed  and  tended 
'em.  We  done  all  the  hard  work,  and  organized 
a  government,  and  made  that  island  so  homelike 
you  couldn't  have  told  it  from  New  York.  Every 
thing  was  legal,  and  I  ask  you  if  the  rise  in  the 
price  of  staples  wasn't  a  natural  rise,  owin'  to  the 
law  of  supply  and  demand?" 

The  lawyer  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

'Wait!"  said  Mr.  Feeny.  "I'll  say  nothin'  of 
the  trouble  it  was  to  care  for  'em,  nor  the  spirit 
they  showed, — how  Mr.  MacCandlish  was  caught 
escapin'  into  the  pa'ms  with  a  can  from  the  back 
door  of  the  St.  Murphy-Feeny,  where  Mister 
Murphy  of  the  Hotel  Trust  chucked  his  broken 
vittles — you  might  call  it  garbage  and  not  mis 
name  it.  When  he  was  captured  and  fetched  back 
penitent,  I  said  to  him:  'Mr.  MacCandlish,  I 
never  thought  you'd  be  one  of  the  first  to  ignore 
the  sacred  rights  of  property,'  and  what  he  an 
swered  would  be  a  case  for  libel  if  I  had  the  mind 
to  push  it.  Now,  if  stealin'  isn't  stealin',  what  is  it?" 

The  lawyer  appeared  to  consider. 

"I  got  a  roll  of  their  checks  as  big  round  as  a 
strong  man's  arm,  and  I'm  lookin'  for  a  way  to 
get  'em  cashed  without  gettin'  pinched  meself," 
said  Mr.  Feeny. 


MR.  FEENY'S  SOCIAL  EXPERIMENT  217 

"And  you  wish  me  to  arrange  this  if  possible?" 
said  the  lawyer,  smiling.  "I  am  not  sure  I  can, 
but  if  you  like  you  may  leave  those  checks  with 
me  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do;  wait  a  moment 
until  I  run  them  over,  and  give  you  an  acknowl 
edgment."  When  he  had  done  so,  he  looked  up 
into  Mr.  Feeny's  long  sad  face  and  whistled  softly. 
Then  he  looked  again  at  the  bundle  of  checks 
and  again  at  Mr.  Feeny,  who  seemed  to  under 
stand. 

"We  was  a  prosperous  people,"  he  said. 

"You  were,   indeed.     Is   this   all,   Mr.   Feeny?" 

"There  was  some  cash  ...  all  they  had,  I 
remember  to  have  heard  them  say,"  answered  Mr. 
Feeny. 

"You  may  come  this  afternoon  somewhere  about 
four/' 

And  that  afternoon  when  Mr.  Feeny,  punctual 
to  the  second,  presented  himself  with  Mr.  Corri- 
gan  and  Mr.  Murphy,  the  first  thing  his  sad  eyes 
saw  was  a  neat  pile  of  bills  on  the  corner  of  Mr. 
Hargrew's  desk. 

"The  full  amount  is  here,  Mr.  Feeny,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "That  incident  of  the  garbage  can  was 
an  important  point  in  the  adjustment  of  your 
claim.  Yours  must  have  been  a  profoundly  inter 
esting  social  experiment." 

"I  dunno  as  I  should  call  it  that,"  said  Mr. 
Feeny  modestly.  "For  it's  my  opinion  there's 
nothin'  easier  than  political  economy.  The  mis- 


218         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

take  most  people  makes  is  in  havin'  the  demands 
instead  of  the  supply/'  and  Mr.  Feeny  permitted 
himself  to  smile. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH 


THE  pen  slipped  from  Philip's  fingers  and 
unheeded  rolled  across  the  table,  while  with 
a  sigh  of  weariness  he  abandoned  himself  to 
idleness.  Resting  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  he 
sunk  his  chin  into  the  palms  of  his  hands  and 
gazed  listlessly  out  of  the  window  on  the  street 
below.  The  cold  gray  light  of  the  dull  October 
afternoon  was  almost  at  an  end;  already  the  street- 
lamps  were  beginning  to  flare  forth  redly  in  bold 
relief  against  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  coming 
night. 

To  Philip  it  was  a  dispiriting  and  cheerless  pros 
pect,  heightened  by  the  winter's  first  chill  breath. 
He  had  seen  it  all  so  often;  if  he  could  only  see 
the  last  of  it.  Each  year  brought  back  those  same 
dull  days,  with  their  leaden  skies  to  fit  into  his 
worst  mood  of  despair  and  longing  and  unfulfil- 
ment.  He  felt  himself  starved  in  mind  and  expe 
rience.  He  was  conscious  always  of  a  fierce  desire 
for  something  different — that  broader  life  to  which 
he  could  not  go,  and  which  would  not  come  to 
him. 

Written  at  the  age  of  twenty. 

219 


220         THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

Slowly  his  eyes  came  back  to  the  table  and  a 
settled  seriousness  stole  into  them  as  he  looked  at 
the  manuscript  lying  upon  it. 

"I  fancy  it  will  be  a  go  this  time,"  he  thought, 
"but" — a  bit  sadly — "I  have  thought  that  so  many 
times,  and  somehow  I  am  just  where  I  was  in  the 
start.  No  nearer  success,  no  nearer  anything — 
except  perhaps  the  end  of  my  hope  and  faith  in 
myself." 

He  had  risen  and  now  stood  looking  down  at 
the  table  with  its  litter  of  paper,  pens  and  letters 
.  .  .  and  rising  from  the  midst  of  the  disorder 
— a  mountain  of  hope — the  pile  of  manuscript.  It 
had  meant  days  and  weeks  of  labor:  days  when 
he  had  striven  with  enthusiasm  for  its  comple 
tion;  days,  too,  that  had  been  given  up  to  the 
savage  denying  of  his  mistrust  and  doubt. 
Through  these  and  his  varying  moods  he  had 
toiled,  and  at  last  his  task  was  approaching  its 
end. 

Turning,  Philip  left  the  room  and  descended  to 
the  narrow  hall  below.  Here  it  was  already  quite 
dark.  He  fumbled  about  until  he  found  his  hat 
and  overcoat,  and  after  getting  into  them  made 
his  way  back  through  the  parlor  and  sitting-room 
to  the  dining-room  where  his  mother  was  arrang 
ing  the  supper  table. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Philip,"  she  said,  glancing  up 
from  her  work.  "I  heard  you  in  the  hall  and 
thought  it  must  be  the  girls  returning." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  221 

Mrs.  Southard  was  a  woman  of  fifty  with  a 
strong  placid  face  that  had  taken  comparatively 
few  lines.  Her  dress  was  of  the  simplest  black, 
and  severely  plain.  It  had  been  black  ever  since 
Philip  could  remember,  for  his  father  had  died 
when  he  was  a  baby. 

While  Philip  was  conscious  that  his  small  world 
had  changed  much  in  the  years  that  marked  the 
limits  of  his  memory,  his  mother  was  still  precisely 
the  same  as  he  recalled  her,  returning  to  his  first 
vague  impression  of  people  and  things.  She  was 
not  and  had  never  been  an  intellectual  woman 
perhaps,  but  to  him  she  stood  for  that  which  was 
most  steadfast  and  purposeful.  Nor  was  she  hard 
with  all  her  splendid  strength.  Her  judgments 
were  infinitely  more  generous  than  those  of  most 
women. 

"You  are  not  going  out,  Philip?"  his  mother 
asked,  observing  that  he  was  ready  for  the  street. 
"It's  almost  supper-time." 

"I  won't  keep  you  waiting,  mother;  I  am  just 
going  down-town  to  post  some  letters." 

"Yes,  dear,  but  do  be  here  for  supper." 

"I   shall  be." 

He  turned  back  into  the  sitting-room,  intending 
to  leave  the  house  by  the  side  door.  His  mother 
followed  him,  and  on  the  threshold  he  faced  her 
again. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  "anything  you  want 
from  down-town?" 


222         THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"No,  dear,  only  I  haven't  told  you,  and  I  wish 
to  now.  I  expect  Anson  home  to-night.  He  will 
remain  over  Sunday.  Do  be  nice  to  him." 

She  spoke  appealingly,  for  Philip's  face  dark 
ened  at  the  news. 

"Am  I  not  always  nice  to  him?  I  mean  to  be 
for  your  sake." 

"Yes,  but  you  seem  so  far  apart,  and  you  are 
brothers." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  mother,  and  we  get  along 
peaceably  enough,  considering  how  we  hate  each 
other.  There,  dear,  you  can't  reconcile  the  ut 
terly  unreconcilable,  so  don't  spend  your  precious 
strength  in  trying  to." 

And  Philip,  closing  the  door  after  him,  went 
down  the  steps  and  into  the  street.  "So,"  he 
muttered,  "Anson  will  be  here  to-morrow  and  I 
shall  have  to  endure  his  presence  for  at  least  a 
part  of  one  penitential  day." 

The  one  cordial  emotion  that  the  brothers 
shared  in  common  was  hatred  one  for  the  other. 
As  children  they  had  eased  this  rancor  by  a  fre 
quent  exchange  of  blows,  but  now,  unhappily  for 
their  peace  of  mind,  they  were  past  that  sort  of 
thing. 

The  street  Philip  was  following  took  him 
straight  to  the  center  of  the  town  and  into  the 
midst  of  Saturday's  crowd.  It  was  such  a  gather 
ing  as  one  might  see  in  almost  any  country  town 
on  the  last  day  of  the  week:  self-conscious  and 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  223 

uncomfortable,  in  ugly  ill-fitting  "best  clothes". 
The  business  of  the  day  was  over,  and  the  crowd 
paraded  up  and  down  the  main  street,  or  back 
and  forth  across  the  Square.  Philip  pushed  his 
way  into  it  with  assertive  elbows.  He  crossed 
the  squalid  Square  with  its  soldier's  monument 
and  its  few  stunted  trees  that  stubbornly  de 
clined  to  grow  and  as  stubbornly  refused  to  die. 
From  the  Square  he  turned  into  a  side  street  that 
led  past  the  post-office.  Here  he  posted  his  let 
ters  and  paused  in  front  of  the  building,  undecided 
where  next  to  go.  As  he  stood  there  a  man  who 
had  been  leaning  against  an  iron  railing  that  sur 
rounded  an  area  way  left  his  position  and  slouched 
up  to  Philip's  side.  The  latter  scanned  the  shabby 
figure  with  some  uncertainty,  then  he  said:  "Oh, 
it's  you,  Lester?" — and  held  out  his  hand.  His 
greeting  was  so  lacking  in  cordiality,  however, 
that  Lester  ignored  the  proffered  hand. 

"If  you  prefer  to  be  alone,"  he  growled,  "why 
don't  you  say  so?" 

Where  they  stood  the  lamplight  fell  upon  his 
face — the  face  of  a  lad  of  twenty-two  or  three — 
stupid  and  sullen  and  debased.  But  Philip  saw  a 
look  of  such  abject  loneliness  in  his  eyes  that  he 
placed  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder:  "Come 
on,  Lester,"  he  said,  and  together  they  went  down 
the  street  and  away  from  the  town.  "What  are 
you  doing?"  Philip  asked  presently. 

"What  I  have  always  done — nothing." 


224        THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

".When  one  hasn't  anything  else  to  do  it's  about 
the  most  agreeable  of  all  occupations,"  Philip  ob 
served.  He  noticed  that  his  companion's  un 
steady  gait  indicated  a  recent  debauch,  but  this 
did  not  prejudice  him  since  he  attributed  all 
moral  delinquencies  to  a  lack  of  sense,  and  so 
readily  condoned  them  on  the  grounds  of  inferior 
judgment. 

A  boyish  friendship,  almost  forgotten,  was  all 
they  had  in  common.  Philip  searched  his  mind 
for  some  topic  of  conversation  that  might  interest 
his  companion,  but  finally  gave  it  up  and  they 
trudged  along  in  silence. 

They  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town  in  this 
manner  and  Philip  was  about  to  turn  back. 

"Let's  go  on  to  the  end  of  the  road,"  said  Les 
ter  with  sudden  interest.  "It  isn't  far,"  he  added, 
for  his  companion  hesitated. 

"Oh,  all  right,  only  I  hope  you  don't  take  this 
walk  often,  Lester,"  Philip  said  with  a  laugh,  for 
the  road  ended  at  the  graveyard. 

Five  minutes  later  and  they  were  standing  be 
fore  the  cemetery  gates.  The  pale  light  of  the 
October  moon  fell  among  the  naked  trees,  while 
the  dead  leaves  rustled  in  the  wind.  There  was 
the  ghostly  white  of  tombstone  and  monument 
and  the  dismal  black  of  contrasting  pine  trees. 
Philip  leaned  against  the  fence  and  surveyed  it  all 
critically.  He  owned  that  he  was  grateful  to 
Lester  for  having  brought  him  there.  It  gave 
him  a  distinct  sensation. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  225 

"I  am  rather  set  against  graveyards  as  a  rule, 
but  this  is  nice  and  curious  and  lonely,"  he  said. 
Lester  did  not  answer  him  and  Philip  continued: 
"I  haven't  been  out  here  in  years.  I  guess  not 
since  we  buried  Mr.  Benedict.  Do  you  remember 
when  we  buried  Mr.  Benedict,  Lester?  I  recall 
it  as  one  of  the  most  gratifying  events  of  my 
childhood.  I  got  a  whole  day  from  school  in 
honor  of  the  affair."  Philip  raised  himself  on 
tiptoe  and  peered  over  the  fence. 

Lester  paid  no  heed  to  Philip  nor  to  what  he 
was  saying.  He  leaned  silent  and  sullen  against  a 
tree  that  stood  by  the  path,  and  gazed  off  into 
the  frosty  distance  in  the  direction  of  the  town. 
Out  of  this  distance  there  floated  a  confusion  of 
sounds — harmonized  and  softened  by  time  and 
place;  while  through  it  all,  clinging  to  the  heavy 
atmosphere,  drifted  the  odor  of  burning  leaves 
and  the  musty  scent  of  dying  vegetation.  There 
was  a  touch  of  sad  regret  in  the  night  as  though 
something  that  had  been  beautiful  was  ended. 
The  boy  felt  this  in  its  kinship  to  the  ruin  he  had 
wrought  in  his  own  life. 

"You  are  no  doubt  wondering  why  I  spoke  to 
you,"  he  said  at  last. 

Philip  nodded  his  head:  "You  know,  Lester, 
we  haven't  had  much  to  do  with  each  other  in 
some  while." 

"I   want   to   talk  with   you." 

"Well,  go  ahead,  for  it  has  just  occurred  to  me 
that  I  promised  to  be  home  in  time  for  supper." 


226        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

Lester  turned  a  pair  of  bloodshot  eyes  full  on 
Philip  and  asked:  "You  think  I  have  been  a  fool, 
don't  you?" 

Philip  shifted  his  feet  uneasily.  He  felt  that 
truth  played  such  an  insignificant  part  in  the  ex 
ercise  of  civility. 

"You  think  I  have  been  a  fool?"  Lester  re 
peated. 

"Before  I  answer  that  I'd  like  to  know  why 
you  ask.  You  see  the  reason  that  prompts  an 
inquiry  is  more  than  apt  to  determine  its  answer 
with  me.  I  always  wish  to  give  satisfaction." 

"I  ask  because  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  think 
of  me.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  any  sort  of  use 
for  me.  You  don't  know,  Philip,  how  bad  I  have 
wanted  some  one  to  talk  to  for  days  and  days — 
some  one  who  is  not  like  myself.  And  when  I 
saw  you  to-night,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  you 
should  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  I  can't  keep  it 
any  longer — my  head  will  burst  if  I  do — can  you 
listen?" 

"Go   ahead, — I'm    listening." 

"For  the  most  part  it's  nothing  but  what  you 
know.  It's  just  about  my  being  such  a  fool.  Yes, 
yes — and  it's  more  than  that!" 

Philip  saw  that  he  was  powerfully  excited,  that 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  this  boy,  with  a 
man's  heavy  burden  of  sin  on  his  shoulders. 

"You  know  about  the  money  I  got  when  I 
came  of  age;  the  money  my  father  left  me  when 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  227 

he  died.  I — you  know  what  a  circus  I  made  of 
myself.  How  every  last  cent  of  it  is  gone?" 

"Yes,  it's  the  gossip — and  I  hear  it." 

Lester  paced  back  and  forth  in  front  of  Philip 
for  a  moment,  and  then  leaned  dejectedly  against 
a  tree. 

"When  you  talked  about  how  it  used  to  be 
when  we  were  boys,  I  could  have  choked  you.  I 
wish  I  were  back  to  it,  with  these  last  years  to 
live  over!"  He  paused,  trembling  with  excite 
ment  and  sorrow.  "When  I  got  hold  of  my 
money  you  shook  me  off  and  would  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  me/' 

"I  hadn't  the  time,  Lester.  I  was  busy  and 
you  were  not.  Our  tastes  had  ceased  to  be  the 
same,  that  was  all.  You  should  not  bear  me  a 
grudge  on  that  score." 

"I  don't — I  like  you  the  better  for  it — you  are 
the  only  fellow  I  can  talk  to.  I  know  if  you  have 
any  sympathy  for  me  it  rests  on  what  I  was  when 
we  tramped  around  the  country  in  vacation  time. 
How  I  wish  I  might  go  back  to  it  and  be  a  boy 
once  more — once  more!" 

With  a  gesture  of  anguish  he  drew  his  hand 
across  his  face.  Perhaps  he  sought  to  hide  some 
part  of  the  pain  that  was  plainly  stamped  upon 
his  woebegone  visage.  He  had  been  so  proud  of 
his  very  misdeeds — and  now 

"I  have  a  lot  of  sympathy  for  you,  Lester;  just 
a  lot,  and  I  am  sorry  for  you,  too." 


228         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Thank  you,  Philip;  I  suppose  I  deserve  all  I 
get.  I  have  been  such  a  cad! — such  a  cub!  I 
spent  in  two  years  and  less  what  it  took  my 
father  all  his  life  to  save.  It  will  be  a  long  while 
before  I  get  hold  of  such  a  lump  again,  and  if  I 
have  to  make  it,  probably  never.  You  know 
how,  when  I  came  of  age,  I  was  taken  up  by  fel 
lows  much  older  than  myself.  My  head  was  com 
pletely  turned  by  my  popularity — well,  it  lasted 
for  a  while  then  quite  suddenly  I  found  myself 
with  empty  pockets  and  no  friends.  People  dis 
covered  all  at  once  that  I  was  shockingly  im 
moral.  They  might  have  known  it  all  along  if 
they  had  cared  to.  I  never  made  any  bones  about 
it.  I  was  no  better  and  no  worse  than  those  I 
went  with.  Now  I  am  an  outcast.  The  fellows 
who  helped  me  on  to  this  don't  see  me  any  more. 
I  have  the  road  to  myself  when  I  go  down-town: 
everybody  gets  out  of  my  way,  but  this  is  noth 
ing — if  it  were  no  more  than  this  I  should  not 
mind." 

"What  else  is  it  that's  wrong?"  said  Philip, 
beginning  to  find  the  boy's  confession  interesting. 

He  was  feeling  a  certain  solicitude  for  the  har 
vester  of  wild  oats.  They  had  been  close  friends 
once,  and  at  not  so  very  long  ago  either.  Lester's 
plunge  into  folly  had  terminated  their  intimacy — 
the  friendship  had  become  irksome  to  both — for 
months  they  had  scarcely  exchanged  more  than 
greetings  when  they  chanced  to  meet,  and  all  in 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  229 

an  instant  Lester  was  sweeping  him  back  to  the 
years  when  they  had  been  inseparable.  With  a 
palpable  effort  Lester  continued: 

"I've  got  all  sorts  of  habits  that  are  ruining  me, 
as  sure  as  I  stand  here — they  are — and  I  can't 
stop.  If  I  can  get  the  money  I  am  going  away. 
Maybe  it  will  be  better  then." 

"Come,  come — brace  up!  There  is  no  good  in 
running  away.  I  doubt  if  it  will  improve  mat 
ters." 

"No,  I  can't  stay." 

"I  should  if  I  were  you.  I  should  wait  for  a 
fitting  opportunity  and  get  even  with  all  my 
former  acquaintances  in  some  dazzling  fashion." 

Philip  spoke  cheerfully  enough,  but  the  tone  of 
his  voice  was  pleasantly  suggestive  of  manslaugh 
ter  as  the  method  he  would  recommend. 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  damned  Judases!"  Les 
ter  burst  out.  "All  I  want  is  to  see  the  last  of 
them."  Then  suddenly  he  relapsed  into  sullenness; 
"I  don't  know  that  it's  worth  the  trouble,"  he 
said.  "I  might  just  as  well  finish  it  off  and  be 
done  with  the  whole  thing  one  time  as  another. 
I  have  thrown  my  money  to  the  dogs  and  my 
chances  with  it.  I  may  as  well  let  the  rest  fol 
low." 

"Nonsense!  You  don't  mean  what  you're  say 
ing.  Stop  drinking  and  behave  yourself  and 
you'll  discover  that  you  have  plenty  of  friends  left. 
It  won't  benefit  you  to  whine  about  it.  That 


230        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

you  have  played  the  fool  concerns  you  alone.  You 
can't  make  the  town  responsible  for  what  you've 
done  yourself." 

Philip  being  the  older,  had  always  in  a  manner 
dominated  Lester.  Even  in  the  days  of  their 
youth  Lester  had  required  a  large  amount  of 
encouragement  to  keep  within  the  wide  limits  of 
what  Philip  had  marked  off  as  the  straight  and 
narrow  path  in  the  field  of  his  moral  percep 
tions.  For  Philip  had  never  aspired  to  any  close 
companionship  with  the  sterner  virtues  and  he 
was  consistent  in  advising  no  lines  of  conduct  he 
was  not  himself  willing  to  follow. 

"Damn  the  town  and  everybody  in  it!  There 
is  not  another  such  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

Evidently  Lester  did  not  find  being  an  outcast 
agreeable,  and  he  viewred  himself  as  an  injured 
individual,  since  his  behavior  had  offended  no 
one,  until  his  riches  were  gone.  Philip  passed 
his  hand  through  Lester's  arm  and  led  him  down 
the  path. 

"You  go  home  and  when  morning  comes,  bring 
ing  with  it  a  clear  head,  think  it  over  and  arrive 
at  the  only  sensible  conclusion  within  your  reach 
.  .  .  to  go  it  straight  and  steady." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  soft  to  unburden  myself 
to  you  like  this?"  Lester  asked. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  regard  you  as  the  opposite  of 
soft." 

On  their  entering  the  town,  Lester  reverted  to 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  231 

his  former  silence  and  Philip,  commenting  on  the 
change,  thought:  ''It  was  the  enlivening  associa 
tions  of  the  tomb  that  made  him  talkative." 

Neither  spoke  until  they  separated  in  front  of 
Lester's  home.  Then  Philip  said:  "Good  night, 
don't  worry,  it  won't  help  you  in  the  least." 

"Good  night." 

"If  you  should  happen  to  want  some  one  to 
discuss  your  affairs  with,  look  me  up.  I  shall 
always  be  at  your  service." 

"Thanks— I  will." 

Lester  turned  from  the  gate  by  which  he  had 
been  standing  and  went  toward  the  house.  Philip 
followed  him  with  a  sympathetic  glance. 

"Poor  boy,"  he  thought,  "he's  in  hard  luck,  and 
though  there  is  no  one  to  blame  but  himself,  it 
doesn't  make  it  easier  to  bear." 

Then  he  called  aloud:  "Good  night.  I'll  ex 
pect  to  see  you  soon." 

Lester  waved  his  hand  as  he  paused  in  the  sud 
den  burst  of  light  from  the  opened  door.  Then  the 
door  closed,  and  Philip  stood  alone,  staring 
thoughtfully  at  the  darkness  where  but  a  mo 
ment  before  the  streaming  light  had  been:  "I 
am  sorry  for  him — but,  suppose  he  avails  himself 
of  the  proffer  of  companionship  I  was  rash  enough 
to  make  and  eats  up  hours  and  hours  of  my 
precious  time — what's  going  to  become  of  my 
work?  This  won't  do.  A  wretched  creature  who 
has  squandered  his  fortune  in  riotous  living  comes 


232        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

along,  makes  a  brutal  assault  on  my  feelings,  and 
I  weakly  succumb — amiable  ass  that  I  am!" 

There  never  was  a  bridge  Philip  did  not  cross 
in  advance  of  his  coming  to  it — never  a  bridge  he 
did  not  go  back  to  and  recross  after  he  was  once 
safely  over.  So  he  stood  thinking  of  the  hours 
he  was  no  doubt  destined  to  waste  on  the  un 
happy  Lester.  At  last  he  went  his  way  reproach 
ing  himself  with  the  unwisdom  of  having  dis 
played  a  tender  and  susceptible  nature. 

He  reached  home  while  still  engaged  in  abusing 
himself;  with  his  hand  upon  the  knob  he  halted 
a  moment  before  opening  the  door.  He  wished 
to  put  his  faculties  in  a  state  of  repose  so  that 
he  could  meet  his  brother  pleasantly  and  with  no 
outward  sign  that  he  desired  to  kick  him.  This 
generally  demanded  a  previous  arrangement  with 
himself.  Assured  that  it  was  accomplished,  he 
pushed  open  the  door.  The  sitting-room  was 
empty,  but  the  noise  coming  from  the  dining-room 
told  him  that  the  family  was  at  supper.  His 
mother,  hearing  him  enter,  called:  "Is  it  you, 
Philip?" 

"Yes,  mother.  I'm  late.  I  really  meant  to  be 
back  long  ago."  Then  to  Anson  as  he  passed 
from  one  room  to  the  other:  "How  are  you,  old 
fellow?" 

Their  mother's  eye  was  upon  them  and  the 
brothers  exchanged  greetings  in  a  friendly  enough 
fashion.  Anson  even  declared  himself  as  delighted 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  233 

to  see  Philip: — a  gratuitous  bit  of  lying  for  which 
the  latter  thanked  him  profusely  as  he  took  his 
seat.  About  the  table  was  grouped  the  entire 
Southard  family.  Philip,  his  mother,  Anson  and 
the  two  girls — Katherine  and  Florence.  The  "in 
harmonious  whole" — as  Philip  was  wont  to  call 
them.  Anson  was  the  eldest — his  brother's  senior 
by  five  or  six  years  and  verging  close  on  thirty — 
handsome,  to'o,  in  his  way,  by  all  odds  the  most 
prepossessing  member  of  the  family.  But  his 
original  advantages  were  somewhat  marred  by  his 
unfortunate  mannerisms,  the  result  in  part  of  his 
occupation — that  of  confidential  clerk  in  the  of 
fice  of  a  manufacturing  concern.  His  every  act, 
serious  or  the  reverse,  was  performed  with  a 
petty  and  aggravating  secrecy.  It  was  displayed 
in  everything  he  did.  He  even  ate  in  a  confi 
dential  manner,  seeming  to  tell  a  business  secret 
to  each  mouthful  he  swallowed.  Philip,  stealing 
covert  glances  at  him,  decided  that  he  had  never 
seen  him  quite  so  abominable.  Yet,  it  struck  him 
for  the  first  time  that  Anson  was  a  disappointed 
man — the  world  had  not  yielded  him  all  that  he 
had  been  coached  to  think  it  would.  He  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  belief  that  he  was  a 
marvel  of  human  perfectibility.  As  a  child,  he  had 
been  so  precocious  in  pursuit  of  the  virtues,  great 
and  small,  that  much  had  been  predicted  of  him. 
Now  when  the  glamour  of  youthful  goodness  was 
changing  into  the  fixity  of  a  shining  light,  he  was 


234         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

held  to  be  a  model  worthy  of  prayerful  emulation 
by  all  right-minded  people — and  so  he  was.  If 
he  had  been  stuffed  with  straw,  he  could  not  have 
been  freer  from  flesh-begotten  sin. 

Despite  this  he  was  a  disappointed  man.  He 
had  been  such  a  remarkable  boy  that  when  he 
reached  maturity  he  was  in  much  the  same  un 
happy  plight  as  a  little  Alexander  with  no  more 
worlds  to  conquer.  That  which  had  been  so 
astonishing  in  the  child,  that  uncanny  goodness 
that  caused  elderly  females  to  throw  up  their 
hands  at  the  mere  mention  of  his  name  and 
launch  forth  in  praise  of  him,  excited  no  especial 
comment  in  the  man.  It  never  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  been  nourished  on  thin  air.  His 
whole  education  was  such  a  mistake — such  an 
injustice — How  could  any  one  thrive  beneath  the 
load  of  useless  rectitude  he  had  set  out  to  carry 
like  a  fool, — mainly  because  it  placed  him  in  the 
ranks  of  other  highly  proper  monstrosities. 

Philip,  slowly  eating  his  supper,  came  to  a  re 
alization  of  this  and  something  not  unlike  pity 
stole  into  his  heart. 

It  was  such  a  remote  chance,  so  removed  from 
the  realm  of  the  possible  that  Anson  would  ever 
succeed  in  distinguishing  himself  more  than  he 
had  done,  and  what  would  become  of  him? 

As  he  speculated  on  the  outcome,  the  two  girls 
and  Anson  talked  back  and  forth  across  the  table, 
and  he  stopped  thinking  to  listen. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  235 

It  was  the  usual  discussion  of  ways  and  means 
they  carried  on.  This  bill  to  be  met — its  fellow 
to  be  evaded  until  the  end  of  the  month.  The 
evidences  of  a  not  over-lovely  existence,  but  hard 
and  precarious — close  to  the  ragged  edge  of  want. 
The  much  spent  on  the  worthless  shams — the  lit 
tle  on  the  solid  comforts  of  a  good  living. 

"As  if  any  one  is  deceived  or  thinks  us  richer 
than  we  are,"  Philip  thought.  "We  are  more  or 
less  like  our  neighbors  and  they  estimate  our  in 
come  to  the  last  penny,  just  as  we  do  theirs." 

There  was  something  so  hopeless  about  the 
aspect  life  took  on,  something  so  perilously  near 
to  the  perpetual  grind  of  downright  poverty,  that 
it  made  him  revolt  and  he  burst  out  angrily: 

"Why,  in  heaven's  name,  don't  you  find  some 
more  cheerful  subject  to  discuss !  Must  it  forever 
be  debts  and  bills,  as  if  there  was  only  the  one 
purpose  in  living — to  squirm  through  somehow 
until  the  end  of  the  month!" 

"I  guess,"  Katherine,  the  elder  of  the  girls,  said, 
her  eyes  snapping  viciously,  "that  some  one 
has  to  think  of  such  matters,  though  I  am  sure 
no  one  wants  to;  and  Anson  is  here  so  seldom 
and  he  is  the " 

"Katherine !"  Her  mother  spoke  sharply,  warn 
ing  her  not  to  finish  the  sentence. 

Philip  looked  down  at  his  plate  and  bit  his  lips. 
He  knew  what  his  sister  would  have  said  had 
their  mother  not  interfered — that  Anson  was  the 


236        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

family's  mainstay — but  her  mother's  warning 
stopped  her. 

It  was  by  no  means  a  loving  family,  nor  was 
there  any  special  graciousness  in  their  intercourse. 
Philip  barely  tolerated  his  sisters.  Katherine  was 
undeniably  mean  and  spiteful.  To  her  natural 
tendencies  she  had  added  an  exceedingly  bigoted 
habit  of  thought  which  she  referred  to  as  "her 
faith". 

Its  acquirement,  if  she  was  to  be  credited  with 
telling  the  truth,  had  cost  her  many  sleepless 
nights  and  great  self-sacrifice.  It  was  exercised 
chiefly  in  a  rabid  criticism  of  her  species  in  which 
she  recently  delighted. 

Florence  was  rather  better  in  sweetness  of 
temper  and  disposition,  but  to  hear  her  talk  was 
maddening  torture  to  him.  She  had  all  a  woman's 
misplaced  and  indiscriminate  adjectives.  Every 
thing  was  "grand"  to  her,  from  hot  pop-corn  to 
a  clap  of  thunder. 

The  connecting  link  holding  the  four  together 
was  Mrs.  Southard,  whose  force  of  will  kept  them 
united  after  love  and  affection  had  ceased  to  exist. 

The  first  strong  emotion  they  had  known  had 
been  hate,  one  for  the  other.  They  were  so  dif 
ferent  in  every  quality  of  soul  and  body;  they 
saw  and  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  every 
conceivable  question.  But  one  thing  they  had  in 
common,  an  admirable  tenacity,  which  rendered 
them  insensible  to  either  courtesy  or  reason  where 
their  prejudices  were  at  stake. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  237 

The  home,  such  as  it  was,  existed  only  by  grace 
of  Mrs.  Southard's  strength  of  character.  For 
while  their  mutual  dislike  reached  a  degree  of 
bitterness  hard  to  comprehend,  they  all  loved  her, 
each  in  his  or  her  own  way. 

"What  detained  you,  Philip?"  his  mother  asked 
when  Katherine  was  restored  to  composure. 

"I  took  a  walk  with  Lester  Royal." 

"I  don't  think  him  a  very  good  person  to  be 
seen  with,"  Katherine  interposed.  She  felt  bound 
to  raise  a  disturbance  on  moral  grounds. 

"Don't  you? — why  not?"  Then  as  a  happy 
after  thought:  "There  are  certain  people  who 
should  be  restrained  from  thinking." 

Katherine  ignored  his  remark  and  returned  to 
the  charge. 

"What  sort  of  a  reputation  has  he,  I  should 
like  to  know!  But  of  course  you  are  superior  to 
a  trifle  like  that." 

"I  fancy  it's  what  it  should  be." 

"You  know  very  well  he  has  no  reputation  at 
all.  But  I  suppose  you  don't  mind — you  are  so 
liberal." 

"Then  I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  wrong  with 
it  since  it  doesn't  exist." 

"It  does  exist  and  is  most  unsavory!" 

"Well,  even  an  unsavory  reputation  is  a  'de 
cided  improvement  on  no  reputation  at  all." 

"I  don't  think "   Katherine  began. 

"I  am  glad  you  don't,  Kate;  it  was  never  in 
tended  you  should,"  Philip  made  haste  to  say. 


238        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

At  this  point  Florence  took  up  the  cudgels 
against  Philip: 

"I  should  think  you  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  let  people  see  you  with  him — he's  simply  hor 
rid!" 

"I  wasn't  seen  with  him,  so  don't  distress  your 
conscience  with  the  idea  that  I  was." 

"No  thanks  to  you  that  you  weren't,"  said 
Katherine. 

"Your  penetration  does  you  credit,  Kate.  I 
don't  happen  to  possess  your  inordinate  respect 
for  appearances."  He  was  waiting  to  make  a 
telling  retort.  This  always  stimulated  him. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  select  men  of  good  char 
acter  for  your  friends,"  Katherine  snapped. 

"Freedom  from  vice  is  more  a  question  of  ig 
norance  than  anything  else."  Unconsciously  he 
glanced  at  Anson  as  he  spoke. 

"I  should  be  ashamed  to  think  it,"  said  Kath 
erine. 

"Perhaps  my  spiritual  insight  has  become 
blunted  by  my  unfavorable  surroundings." 

"I  suppose  that's  a  covert  slur  at  me  and  my 
religion,"  with  heat.  "The  things  you  say  are  dis 
graceful!" 

"I  don't  see  how  mother  can  permit  it,"  Flor 
ence  said,  bent  on  being  in  the  row. 

"For  pity's  sake,  girls,  can't  you  let  Philip  fin 
ish  his  supper  in  peace,  without  going  out  of  your 
way  to  complain  of  what  is  no  affair  of  yours?" 
It  was  Mrs.  Southard  who  spoke. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  239 

Philip  pushed  back  his  plate.  "I  am  through 
and  will  take  myself  off,"  he  said.  He  kissed  his 
mother,  and  with  an  indifferent  good  night  to  the 
rest,  left  the  room.  A  moment  later  the  street 
door  closed  with  a  bang. 

"I  wish  to  gracious  he  was  already  married  to 
Barbara.  I'll  bet  he'd  know  pretty  quick  he 
wasn't  any  better  off,"  said  Florence. 

"There — there,"  Mrs.  Southard  objected  wear 
ily.  "Can't  you  find  something  else  to  talk 
about?" 


II 


The  Southard's  belonged  to  that  great  divi 
sion  of  the  human  family — the  eminently  re 
spectable.  As  far  as  they  went  they  were  above 
reproach — nor  were  they  without  a  certain  pres 
tige.  As  Katherine  was  wont  to  remark:  "They 
knew  the  best." 

Furthermore,  it  was  tradition  that  once  upon  a 
time  they  had  been  very  rich,  or  rather  their  re 
mote  ancestors  had  been  so  blessed,  and  vouch 
ing  for  this  former  grandeur,  there  remained  to 
them  a  considerable  and  distinguished  connection. 

These  distinguished  relatives,  whom  Philip 
hated  cordially,  were  much  addicted  to  the  habit 
— while  on  their  periodic  gyrations  about  the 
country — of  stopping  with  his  mother,  when  by 
so  doing  they  could  break  long  and  possibly 
fatiguing  trips. 


240        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

On  these  occasions  the  relatives  spent  most  of 
their  time  in  curl-papers  or  smoking  jackets. 
Whenever  Mrs.  Southard  ventured  to  suggest 
some  mild  festivity  in  their  honor  they  refused 
to  be  entertained,  with:  "We  beg  you  won't, 
Cousin  Jane.  We  are  here  simply  for  a  nice  quiet 
visit  with  you  and  the  children.  Later  on  we 
shall  be  forced  to  be  so  very  gay,  you  know. 
.  .  ."  On  these  occasions  when  the  guests 
divided  their  time  about  equally  between  eating 
and  sleeping,  their  entertainers'  mode  of  living 
was  ordered  on  such  a  scale  of  magnificence  and 
reckless  extravagance  that  they  were  almost  in 
variably  brought  to  the  verge  of  ruin,  and  they 
generally  atoned  for  the  temporary  burst  of  luxury 
by  months  of  close  economy.  Then  when  the 
rich  and  distinguished  relatives  had  taken  their 
leave,  the  Southards  would  cut  down  expenses 
and  try  to  convince  themselves  that  the  departed 
guests  were  the  most  charming  people  imagina 
ble.  Some  little  fiction  of  the  kind  was  positively 
indispensable  when  the  grocery  bill  came  in. 

One  member  of  this  contingent  happening  to 
die — the  only  disinterested  action  of  a  singularly 
selfish  career — had  bethought  him  of  the  South 
ards  in  his  last  moments  and  had  strangely  enough 
remembered  them  in  his  will  with  a  legacy  for 
each  of  the  children.  It  was  a  matter  of  some 
hundreds  apiece  and  the  two  girls  and  Anson  had 
straightway  spent  their  portions. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  241 

Philip,  at  the  time  of  this  windfall,  was  in  busi 
ness:  it  gave  him  the  opportunity  he  had  long 
coveted.  He  planned  three  years  of  liberty  in 
which  to  follow  up  his  inclination  to  write. 

No  one  appreciated  the  courage  this  involved 
and  Philip  went  his  course  without  help  from 
any  one.  He  told  himself  that  if  he  came  to  grief 
there  would  be  but  scant  loss — a  little  money  and 
the  waste  of  days. 

He  had  been  by  no  means  a  success  in  commer 
cial  pursuits,  and  if  he  failed  with  his  pen,  why, 
it  was  no  more  than  he  was  apt  to  do  in  other 
things.  For  a  year  his  labors  in  the  field  of 
literature  went  unrewarded,  and  many  times  he 
was  tempted  to  give  up  the  struggle  in  disgust. 
Then  at  last,  when  his  small  legacy  was  all  but 
gone,  the  first  meager  returns  filled  him  with 
renewed  hope  and  energy. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  he  saw  his  tiny  bank  bal 
ance  swell  until  it  reached  the  grand  total  of  a 
thousand  dollars.  Upon  that  day  there  came  to 
him  the  satisfying  though  distant  vision  of  suc 
cess. 

It  was  not  to  be  a  selfish  success  he  told 
himself:  he  would  shirk  no  obligation  when  it 
came — all  should  profit  by  it.  But  he  could  do 
so  much  with  a  different  environment.  The 
appreciation  his  brother  and  sisters  gave  him 
was  so  tainted  by  an  indiscriminate  disapproval 
of  his  aims,  and  their  recognition  of  his  poor  tri- 


242         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

umphs  so  niggardly,  as  though  any  reference  to 
them  was  an  acknowledgment  of  superiority  on 
his  part.  In  spite  of  this  he  would  do  what  he 
could  for  them — when  he  could.  Most  of  all 
would  he  do  for  his  mother.  She  should  have 
the  thousand  things,  big  and  little,  women  loved 
and  wanted.  She  had  done  so  much  for  him — for 
all  of  them.  She  had  brought  them  up  unaided, 
through  a  struggle  against  poverty,  the  hardness 
of  which  he  could  only  dimly  divine.  He  would 
have  counted  it  the  blackest  treachery  not  to 
have  thought  of  her. 

Then  when  the  girls  were  married — and  marry 
they  must — he  intended  to  get  husbands  for  them, 
even  if  they  had  to  be  bought — she  would  come 
and  live  with  him. 

They  had  talked  it  over  a  hundred  times — he 
and  Barbara — and  knew  just  how  it  was  to  be  ar 
ranged. 

He  never  questioned  his  ability  to  do  all  this, 
for  his  faith  had  become  perfect  and  abiding. 

In  the  kindly  benevolence  of  his  castle-building 
he  even  wished  well  to  Anson.  After  all,  they 
were  brothers.  Anson  had  a  fondness  for  travel; 
he  would  give  him  the  means  to  indulge  that 
taste,  he  should  travel — more  than  this,  he  should 
travel  always — the  farther  away  the  better. 

When  he  left  home,  Philip  betook  himself  into 
the  presence  of  his  betrothed.  As  he  entered 
the  parlor  where  Barbara  sat — idly  turning  the 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN   HATH  243 

leaves  of  a  book,  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
smiled. 

"I  am  glad  you  came/'  she  said.  "I  was  just 
beginning  to  think  I  shouldn't  see  you  to-night." 

Philip  drew  a  chair  near  to  hers  as  he  an 
swered.  "So  am  I,  but  I  should  be  at  work." 

"Guess  who  has  called  this  afternoon?" 

"Why  do  you  make  me  exert  myself — why 
don't  you  tell  me  at  once  if  I  am  to  know?" 

"Mr.   Shelden." 

"Well,  and  what  had  he  to  say?  Do  you  know, 
Barbara,  I  object,  for  it  just  occurs  to  me  that  he 
is  without  a  wife  .  .  .  having  already  disposed  of 
one.  Truly  I  object  to  his  calling  on  you." 

"But  he  is  papa's  friend " 

"Oh,  is  he?  Well,  he  is  a  precious  old  fool — 
that's  my  opinion  of  him." 

Philip,  conscious  of  the  slightness  of  the  claim 
he  had  upon  her,  dreaded  a  possible  rival.  He 
knew  the  sanction  to  his  suit  was  only  passive — 
the  least  thing  might  bring  about  the  most  pro 
nounced  opposition. 

"He  is  not  so  very  old:  he  is  only  forty-five. 
He  regards  himself  as  still  youthful,  for  he  as 
sured  me  this  was  the  age  of  the  young  man," 
said  Barbara. 

"It's  the  age  of  the  damn  fool,"  Philip  grunted 
savagely,  and  then  penitently:  "That  was  a  case 
of  justifiable  damn:  it  was  wrung  from  me,  Bar 
bara.  It's  so  exasperating  to  hear  such  twaddle." 


244        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  believe  you're  jealous,  Philip.  I  really  be 
lieve  you  are!" 

"Of  course  I  am!  I  am  no  better  than  a  pau 
per — and  he " 

"How  inconsistent  of  you.  The  other  eve 
ning  you  said  you  should  never  care  whom  I  saw. 
Do  be  consistent." 

"Consistency  is  the  last  refuge  of  an  idiot.  Be 
cause  I  say  or  do  a  thing  once,  am  I  to  be  tied 
to  it  for  the  rest  of  my  days?" 

"But  it  is  quite  impossible  to  keep  track  of 
your  beliefs." 

"Pardon  me,  I  have  opinions,  but  no  beliefs. 
What  else  did  he  say?" 

"You  mean  Mr.  Shelclen?" 

"Yes.  What  other  shoddy  nineteenth  century- 
ism  did  he  repeat?" 

"He  said  any  number  of  things.  He  spoke 
about  you." 

"Old  gossip!  What  did  he  find  to  say  about 
me?" 

"He  asked  what  you  were  doing." 

"I  hope  you  had  the  courage  to  tell  him  it  was 
none  of  his  business." 

"I  didn't  do  anything  so  rude.  I  told  him  you 
were  writing.  He  seemed  deeply  impressed  and 
said  he  had  always  liked  you." 

"Humph!    He's  a  startling  novelty." 

"I  thought  it  very  lovely  of  him  to  be  so  sym 
pathetic,  for  of  course  he  knows.  I  have  an  idea 
papa  tells  him  everything." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  245 

"What  else,  Barbara?    Can't  you  tell  me  all?" 

"I  told  him  about  your  book — and  then  we  dis 
cussed  books  in  general.  He  reads  a  great  deal, 
so  he  told  me." 

"Probably — Thoughts  for  a  Christian  on  Losing 
his  Hair — for  I  have  observed  he  is  getting  bald." 

"How  mean  of  you!" 

"Oh,  Barbara,  what  in  heaven's  name  is  going 
to  happen  if  some  one  comes  between  us — some 
one  who  has  money  and  all  that's  worth  while?" 

"You  know  there  is  something  that  no  one  can 
have  but  you." 

She  leaned  forward,  holding  out  her  hand  for 
him  to  take.  "I  have  given  you  so  much  love 
that  you  must  have  it  all,  or  I  shall  keep  it  for 
you  untouched  forever." 

And  Philip,  looking  into  the  face  so  close  to  his, 
saw  that  she  meant  the  words  she  spoke.  But 
beyond  the  words  he  seemed  to  see  that  a  cloud 
could  not  rest  long  upon  her.  She  was  created 
for  love  and  brightness,  and  in  his  heart  he 
knew  that  they  must  be  together  soon  or  he 
would  lose  her. 

"What  is  it,  Philip?"  she  asked  after  a  short 
silence.  "What  are  you  thinking?" 

"That  I  am  happy,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"Only  that?" 

"Could  it  be  more?  How  glad  I  am  that  you 
are  as  you  are.  I  would  not  have  you  changed." 

"It's  not  because  I  am  so  good,  is  it?  For  you 
know  I  am  not." 


246        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Before  he  could  answer  a  door  opened  and 
closed  in  the  adjoining  room.  The  sound  had  an 
instantaneous  effect  on  Philip. 

"Here  is  your  father,  Barbara;  we'll  speak  of 
the  weather.  It  is  a  matter  upon  which  I  am 
disposed  to  agree  with  any  one — always  except 
ing  the  pious  Anson." 

"Why  do  you  pretend  to  dislike  your  brother? 
I  think  him  very  nice, — very  fine-looking." 

"Hate  is  as  essential  to  certain  natures  as  love 
— and  much  more  satisfying." 

"But  you  can't  hate  him.  You  are  far  from 
honest." 

"People  form  such  queer  notions  of  me.  They 
are  eternally  thinking  I  am  not  sincere,  and  yet, 
Barbara,  I  mean  all  I  say — while  I  am  saying 
it.  Could  integrity  carry  me  to  greater  lengths?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  knitted  brows.  He  was 
unlike  any  one  she  had  ever  known. 

"Are  you  really  afraid  of  him? — of  papa?"  she 
asked. 

"The  relations  existing  between  us  are  strained; 
he  may  at  any  moment  send  me  from  the  house 
for  good  and  all." 

Barbara  laughed.  "I  am  quite  sure  he  is  guilt 
less  of  any  such  intention." 

"I  regret  to  say  that  I  am  not." 

Philip  regarded  Mr.  Gerard  as  a  person  of  one 
idea,  and  that  invariably  a  wrong  one.  It  wras 
neither  safe  nor  agreeable  to  be  so  at  his  mercy, 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  247 

for  he  held  Philip's  happiness  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand,  and  that  young  gentleman  was  much 
oppressed  by  the  suspicion  that  he  was  not  pop 
ular  with  Barbara's  parent.  When  he  questioned 
her  she  always  assured  him  that  her  father  re 
spected  him  most  thoroughly,  but  Philip  doubted 
this. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  now  and  then  he  de 
tected  a  pugnacious  quality  in  Mr.  Gerard's  man 
ner  toward  him,  which  he  stubbornly  declined 
to  notice  or  take  exception  to,  as  every  other 
consideration  was  minor  to  the  great  one  of  gain 
ing  time  in  which  to  place  himself  beyond  the 
reach  of  interference,  so  he  put  his  pride  in  his 
pocket  and  strove  to  prevent  a  clash. 

Mr.  Gerard  appeared  suddenly  in  the  doorway. 

"I  wish  you  would  come  with  me  into  the  li 
brary,  Philip,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  little  matter 
I  should  like  to  discuss  with  you.  Barbara  will, 
I  am  sure,  excuse  you  for  a  few  moments." 

Philip  came  to  his  feet  on  the  instant.  The 
parable  of  the  spider  and  the  fly  presented  itself 
to  him. 

"How  do  you  do,"  he  said.  He  was  not  at  his 
best  when  Mr.  Gerard  was  about. 

"Just  follow  me  into  the  library,  if  you  please." 
For  Philip  was  gazing  stupidly  at  him. 

"Oh,  certainly."  From  the  door  he  glanced 
back  at  Barbara,  and  she  saw  that  his  face  was 
clouded  with  apprehension. 


248        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

While  she  was  wondering  what  it  all  meant, 
and  what  her  father  could  have  to  say  to  Philip, 
there  drifted  in  to  her  the  murmur  of  their  low 
ered  voices,  coming  from  the  room  that  had  con 
ferred  upon  it  the  name  of  library  in  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  its  furniture  consisted  in  the  main 
of  a  desk,  some  leather-covered  chairs  given  over 
to  decay,  and  a  bookcase,  containing  an  encyclo 
pedia,  a  dictionary,  and  by  actual  count  ninety-six 
novels.  The  room  was  also  adorned — as  the  com 
plete  triumph  of  intellectuality — by  a  bust  of 
Shakespeare. 

Here  Mr.  Gerard  was  supposed  to  do  his  think 
ing. 

Barbara's  mother  was  an  invalid  and  seldom 
left  her  room.  This  was  another  tangle  in  the 
snarled  arrangement  of  Philip's  hopes,  for  Bar 
bara's  father  had  severe  Spartan  ideas  on  the  du 
ties  of  children  to  their  parents.  And  Mrs.  Gerard 
was  so  busy  with  her  symptoms,  real  or  imag 
inary,  that  she  never  concerned  herself  in  domes 
tic  matters.  She  left  all  that  to  her  husband,  who 
ran  things  with  a  high  and  often  heavy  hand. 

Barbara  controlled  her  curiosity  as  best  she 
could.  Finally  the  conference  was  at  an  end. 
She  heard  her  father  remark  in  his  ordinary  stri 
dent  tones: 

"You  appreciate  the  justice  of  my  course, 
Philip." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Philip  reentered  the  par 
lor. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  249 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quickly. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  mantel,  looking  down  at  her  in  silence. 

"What  is  it,  Philip?"  she  repeated. 

"Your  father  says  that  I  must  be  ready  to 
marry  you  within  a  year  or  else "  he  paused. 

"Or  else  what?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"The  worst.     I  shall  have  to  give  you  up." 

Philip  saw  her  face  pale.  She  arose  and  stood 
at  his  side,  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  her  head 
tilted  so  that  she  could  look  into  his  face. 

"It  shall  be  only  you,  Philip.  If  it  is  not  you 
it  shall  be  no  other." 

He  gazed  at  her  in  silence,  trying  to  read  the 
depth  of  her  faith  in  her  eyes.  The  thought  that 
she  was  beautiful  and  that  he  loved  her  came 
strongly  to  him. 

"You  believe  in  me,  Philip;  you  trust  me?" 

"As  I  do  no  one  else — as  I  never  shall  another. 
It  is  you  and  only  you.  Everything  is  centered 
or  ends  forever  in  you."  And  then  he  laughed 
lightly.  "After  all,  it  is  not  so  bad.  Perhaps  this 
will  force  our  happiness  upon  us  sooner  than  we 
have  dared  anticipate." 

"How  long  did  he  say?" 

"Within  a  year,  and  it  is  so  short  a  time,"  he 
said,  with  a  deep  breath. 

"Within  a  year,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "But  I 
can't  be  forced  away  from  you.  He  can't  make 
me  give  you  up."  And  she  shook  her  head  in 
defiance. 


250        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Can't  he,  Barbara?  Can't  he,  dear?"  And 
Philip  bent  toward  her,  speaking  softly. 

"I  belong  to  you." 

Philip  straightened  up,  saying  somewhat  grim 
ly:  "I  must  work.  I  shall  be  forced  to  see  you 
less  often." 

"Must  you?" 

"Yes.  This  admits  of  no  delay.  And  no  matter 
how  hard  I  work  .  .  .  even  then  it's  all  doubt  and 
uncertainty." 

"Why  do  we  have  to  wait?" — with  a  sigh.  "I 
could  help  you  so  much  if  I  were  with  you.  I 
know  I  could." 

Philip  ground  out  between  his  set  teeth  the  one 
word,  "Money,"  and  Barbara  was  silent. 

"We  are  most  unfortunate,"  he  continued. 
"We  both  belong  to  what  are  called  pros 
perous  and  well-to-do  families  and  yet  beyond  a 
well  defined  point  there  is  not  an  extra  penny, 
every  cent  being  swallowed  up  in  the  wretched 
sham  of  appearances.  I  own  frankly  I  am  poor, 
and  as  if  this  were  not  misfortune  enough  in  it 
self,  my  poverty  is  allied  to  a  worthless  sneaking 
respectability  that  is  maintained  at  the  cost  of 
constant  sacrifice.  I  'have  the  added  ignominy  of 
knowing  that  the  very  appearances  on  which  is 
squandered  everything,  deceive  no  one.  How 
destructive  to  self-respect  to  live  a  lie  unbelieved 
even  by  the  most  credulous!  If  it  accomplished 
its  beneficent  mission,  there  would  be  a  worthy 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  251 

excuse  for  it,  but  to  run  the  risk  of  damnation 
for  the  sake  of  a  lot  of  unsuccessful  deceits  makes 
my  soul  sick." 

"What  do  we  care  for  people?  If  we  are  happy 
what  does  it  matter?"  She  pressed  close  to  his 
side.  "What  do  we  care?" 

"Do  you  mean  you  would  marry  me  now,  if 
you  could,  and  disregard  the  doubtfulness  of  the 
future?" 

"But  you  haven't  asked  me  yet  .  .  .  how  can 
I  tell?" 

"Wrould  you,  dear?"  .  .  .  tenderly. 

"Try  me.  It  would  be  such  fun  to  live  just  as 
we  could,  and  not  have  to  make  believe.  I  im 
agine  the  worst  of  poverty  is  in  the  thought  that 
some  one  else  knows.  Tell  me  what  father  said." 

"I  have  already  told  you,  Barbara." 

"But  tell  me  how  it  came  about.  How  he  led 
up  to  it  and  what  you  said." 

Philip  thought  for  a  moment.  When  he  spoke 
his  manner  suggested  weariness,  as  if  the  recent 
ordeal  had  been  too  much  for  him. 

"Really  I  am  quite  collapsed,  quite  annihilated. 
What  a  stunning  advantage  a  young  woman's 
father  has  over  his  daughter's  'young  man.' ' 

"Won't  you  answer  me? — what  was  it  papa 
said?" 

"Well,  we  kept  clear  of  sentiment  from  the  start 
— we  canvassed  the  situation  from  a  purely  busi 
ness  basis." 


252        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"But  you  know  nothing  about  business." 

"I  talk  intelligently  enough  on  a  good  many 
subjects  of  which  I  know  nothing." 

"What  else  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  that  I  was  a  very  proper  young  man,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"And  then  what?" 

"After  an  exchange  of  compliments  he  gave  me 
to  understand  that  business  was  business.  Then, 
Barbara,  with  startling  brevity  and  great  sol 
emnity,  tempered  with  severity,  he  informed  me 
that  this  waiting  was  unjust  to  you,  that  it  unduly, 
compromised  you,  to  all  of  which  I  agreed.  He 
again  alluded  to  my  virtues;  during  their  enum 
eration,  my  feelings  were  of  the  ghastly  jolly  or 
der,  for  I  thought  that  this  formed  the  prelude 
to  a  blessing  and  dismissal — but  it  didn't.  He 
wound  up  by  asking  me  what  my  resources  were. 
Of  course  I  shuffled  about  and  tried  to  daze  him 
by  a  complicated  explanation,  filled  with  glitter 
ing  generalities,  though  I  own  they  did  not  glitter, 
for  he  held  me  to  the  subject  in  hand  and  I 
marshaled  up  my  prospects  for  his  inspection.  I 
confess  I  was  governed  by  no  intention  to  be 
honest.  I  lied  outright  wherever  I  could  and 
where  I  couldn't  I  maimed  or  strangled  the  facts. 
If  I  had  only  had  warning — a  little  time  for 
preparation,  and  the  memorizing  of  imaginary 
statistics — I  should  have  made  a  better  showing. 
I  simply  could  not  stick  to  the  truth;  but  it  stuck 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  253 

to   me   in   fragments.      I    felt   as    though    I    were 
pasted  all  over  with  it." 

"But  what  did  you  say  to  papa?" 

"I  told  him  what  my  income  was — I  had  to 
name  a  sum  so  small  I  am  sure  he  believed  me 
at  once.  Lastly  I  told  him  of  my  expectations, — 
and  there  was  where  I  lied.  With  the  result  that, 
providing  I  shall  increase  my  earnings  sufficiently 
to  warrant  such  a  course,  I  am  to  marry  you 
within  a  year, — otherwise  I  don't." 

And  Philip  dropped  into  a  chair  dejected  in 
body  and  mind. 

"Now,  what  the  dickens  does  he  expect?  I 
can't  become  famous  on  twelve  months'  notice. 
However,  I  must  work  morning,  noon  and  night 
with  no  let-up  whatever." 

"And  what's  going  to  become  of  me  then?" 
asked  Barbara. 

"You  know,  dear,  we  can't  sacrifice  the  future 
for  the  present.  It's  a  beastly  short  time  in  which 
I  am  to  make  a  substantial  addition  to  my  earn 
ings,  and  your  father  most  expressly  stipulates  that 
I  bring  them  up  to  some  appropriate  figure.  In  the 
event  of  my  being  able  to  do  this  he  will  entrust 
your  happiness  to  my  care,  feeling  assured  I  am 
and  will  continue  to  be  worthy  of  the  trust  he  re 
poses  in  me — and  so  on  and  so  forth  through  the 
easy  let-down  that  he  gave  me.  On  the  whole 
he  was  fair  .  .  .  most  fair." 

Philip  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 


254        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"That  I  have  a  thousand  dollars  and  better  in 
the  bank  was  a  point  in  my  favor — if  it  had  not 
been  for  that  the  chances  for  a  respectful  hearing 
would  have  been  slim.'* 

"It  is  quite  a  sum,"  Barbara  said.  "Lots  of 
people  here,  nice  people,  too,  live  on  small  sal 
aries  and  never  get  anything  ahead.  Of  course 
there  are  others,  like  the  Perkinses,  who  are  rich." 

"It's  pitifully  small!"  said  Philip,  and  looked 
his  disgust. 

"I  don't  know — one  can  do  lots  with  a  thousand 
dollars.  You  can  buy  a  very  pretty  little  home 
here  for  that,"  said  Barbara  practically. 

"Of  course  your  father  knows  the  money  was 
left  me  and  that  I  didn't  make  it.  He  hinted  that 
it  was  about  time  that  I  got  into  something  cer 
tain.  He  even  said  that  as  soon  as  I  did  we 
might  marry.  It's  awfully  lucky  about  that 
money.  I  hope  to  goodness  nothing  will  hap 
pen  to  the  bank,  for  if  there  should,  I  might  just 
as  well  quit." 

Both  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"Isn't  it  absurd!"  said   Barbara  dolefully. 

"No,  it's  very  serious,  dear.  Let's  think  what 
I  can  do  to  get  a  salary  out  of  the  town.  I  wish 
I  could  go  away,  but  I  simply  can't  do  that.  I 
must  stay  and  help  out  at  home.  I  suppose  I'd 
better  try  and  bone  the  papers  for  more  work. 
That's  the  only  sure  thing  in  sight.  I  can  always 
get  that  in  small  doses,  because  it  helps  the  sale. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  255 

My  friends  are  willing  to  pay  something  for  the 
opportunity  to  criticize  the  drivel — it's  about  the 
only  opportunity  they  have  had  yet.  It's  a  great 
thing  to  be  a  literary  man  in  a  small  town,  Bar 
bara!" 

"I  hate  to  think  I  am  to  be  bought,"  Barbara 
said  angrily.  "That  it  all  rests  on  money,  as 
though  love  were  valueless." 

"It's  a  commercial  age." 

"You  seem  to  believe  in  nothing."  There  was 
marked  disfavor  in  her  glance. 

Philip  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  "I  believe  in 
your  happiness  and  mine  if  I  succeed.  I  have 
every  confidence  in  myself." 

"But  not  in  me — you  never  speak  of  that!" 

"Yes,  dear,  in  you,  too!" 

"You  don't  say  it  as  if  you  meant  it!" 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to  saying  things  I  mean 
seriously." 

"I  wish  you  would  pay  me  the  compliment  of 
being  serious." 

"I  do." 

And  truly  beneath  all  the  flippancy  his  heart 
was  heavy — and  as  lead. 

Ill 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  Philip  pushed  into 
the  church  as  the  congregation  streamed  out 
through  the  wide  doors.  He  made  his  way  up 


256        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

to  the  choir  loft  where  a  man  had  just  risen 
from  his  seat  before  the  organ.  This  was  Franz 
Becker. 

"You  are  late,  Franz,"  he  observed. 

"It  is  Communion  Sunday,"  Becker  said  in  a 
deep  beautiful  voice.  "That  makes  it  late." 

"See  here,"  said  Philip,  "I  wish  you  would  ask 
me  to  dinner  with  you.  Anson's  home  and  I 
want  to  avoid  him  if  possible." 

"Certainly,"  answered  Becker, — "by  all  means 
come  with  me." 

They  went  down  and  out  of  the  church :  Philip, 
light  and  active  in  all  his  movements;  Becker, 
ponderous  and  slow — but  masterful  always,  a  man 
for  the  big  things  of  his  art.  A  warm  friendship 
existed  between  the  two.  Philip  had  an  intense  ad 
miration  for  the  musician,  who  seemed  to  dwell  in 
a  state  pretty  evenly  divided  between  abject  de 
spondency  and  settled  rage.  He  respected  this 
temperamental  constancy.  They  were  both  friend 
less  in  a  marked  degree,  neither  of  them  being 
calculated  to  invite  an  extensive  or  varied  ac 
quaintance.  Few  people  enjoyed  Philip's  conver 
sation.  Indeed,  it  was  a  special  point  with  him 
that  they  should  not.  Nor  did  Becker  rejoice  in 
any  great  popularity.  He  was  wholly  repellent 
in  his  attitude  toward  the  small  world  in  which  he 
moved — with  a  savage  pride  that  wras  ever  on  the 
alert.  He  might  have  been  in  a  primitive  sort  of 
way  something  of  a  social  lion,  but  his  taming  was 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  257 

too  imperfect  to  admit  of  it.  His  rudeness  and 
barbarities  comprised  the  most  interesting  anec 
dotes  the  town  could  furnish.  Becker  came  of  a 
class  where  poverty  was  the  unvarying  rule — 
meanness  and  commonness  had  been  his  earliest 
companions  and  in  a  moderated  form  these  two 
kept  their  place  at  his  side,  chaining  and  crippling 
him,  running  him  to  the  earth  where  he  would 
have  soared — a  clog  upon  his  steps  forever. 

Just  how  he  had  acquired  his  mastery  of  music 
none  could  tell.  It  was  part  instinct — part  study 
— that  in  its  feverish  intensity  was  all  but  incom 
prehensible.  His  father  had  been  a  musician  of 
more  than  passing  note  in  the  little  German  cap 
ital  where  he  had  lived,  hoped  and  died,  leaving 
the  promise  of  his  genius  unfulfilled.  There, 
his  mother,  after  a  brief  widowhood,  had  mar 
ried  again,  a  man  much  beneath  her  in  every 
respect.  The  marriage  was  followed  by  a  speedy 
emigration  to  America,  where  a  brother  of  her 
second  husband  had  settled.  Franz's  stepfather 
was  a  shoemaker  and  had  wished  Franz  to  follow 
his  trade;  but  as  the  boy  grew  and  as  inclination 
became  purpose,  and  purpose  in  turn  work,  that 
which  was  locked  up  within  him  found  expression. 
He  could  think  and  feel  and  dream.  Best  of  all, 
perhaps,  he  discovered  that  his  rare  talent  had  a 
moneyed  value  that  he  was  quick  to  profit  by — 
then  came  the  rush  of  ambition  that  was  to  carry 
him  on  and  place  him  with  the  masters.  It  spent 


258        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

itself  and  he  was  left  where  it  had  found  him — 
exhausted  and  wearied  by  the  fruitless  effort  he 
had  made.  He  could  only  go  so  far  and  no  far 
ther — circumstances  drew  in  like  a  narrow  circle 
about  him.  He  was  a  giant  set  to  do  a  dwarf's 
labor.  From  the  start  his  mother  and  stepfather 
had  strenuously  opposed  him  on  every  hand. 

However,  when  he  had  proved  that  music  pos 
sessed  a  money  value  that  he  turned  readily  to 
account,  they  ceased  to  object — for  money,  like 
religion,  is  sacred,  and  not  to  be  made  light  of. 

But  his  determination  to  rise  above  the  depend 
ent  and  precarious  position  of  an  instructor  they 
persistently  combated.  Enough  to  live  on  com 
fortably  to  them  represented  enough  for  soul  and 
body  alike.  That  his  art  meant  to  him  expression 
and  development,  they  never  guessed  and  he  never 
sought  to  explain.  He  was  very  patient  with  them 
and  forgiving. 

So,  silently  and  without  complaint,  he  drudged 
away  as  teacher  and  organist,  his  burden  made 
heavy  by  innumerable  younger  brothers  and  sis 
ters  whom  he  was  pushing  with  him  into  humble 
respectability. 

Going  back  into  the  past  he  could  recall  the 
hard  bitter  season  that  came  in  his  childhood  and 
youth :  there  were  things  done  then,  want  endured 
and  privation,  that  even  in  the  comparative  luxury 
of  his  success  made  his  heart  sick  with  a  deadly 
sense  of  shame  and  humiliation. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  259 

He  could  remember  the  death  of  a  little  baby 
sister  that  happened  shortly  after  the  family's  ar 
rival  in  the  town.  The  memory  of  that  event 
stood  forth  distinct  and  minute  down  to  the 
least  particular.  It  was  one  of  those  hopelessly 
miserable  experiences  he  would  have  liked  to  for 
get,  but  could  not. 

There  were  many  little  ones  then  and  they  were 
very  poor,  indeed.  His  stepfather  had  not  been 
able  to  pay  for  the  assistance  which  is  customary  at 
such  times,  but  had  shaped  a  coffin  with  his  own 
hands  for  the  little  body,  and  when  all  was  ready, 
borrowing  a  horse  and  wagon  from  a  neighbor, 
had  driven  to  the  graveyard,  holding  the  pine  box 
across  his  knees.  As  his  mother  was  ill,  and 
could  not  go,  Franz  had  ridden  alone  with  the 
shoemaker,  who,  even  then,  to  all  appearances  was 
an  old  man  bent  and  gray  from  much  confinement 
to  his  bench.  The  small  boy  rode  crouching  in 
the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  for  there  was  not  room 
for  him  upon  the  seat.  He  was  long  haunted  by 
the  vision,  ineffaceable  and  clear,  of  his  father, 
as  he  drove  along,  bending  sadly  over  the  burden 
in  his  lap,  gray  and  somber,  with  the  poor  dignity 
of  grief. 

Their  way  took  them  past  his  uncle's  store,  for 
in  a  squalid  fashion  the  brother  was  well-to-do. 
As  they  passed  his  place  the  child  who  huddled 
drearily  in  the  bed  of  the  cart,  oppressed  by  an 
indefinite  sense  of  sorrow,  saw  his  uncle  standing 


260        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

beside  his  open  door  in  his  shirt-sleeves — the  cen 
ter  of  a  lounging  group  of  idlers — and  when  the 
man  became  conscious  of  the  nearness  of  the 
two,  the  wide-eyed  child  and  the  father,  driving 
the  horse,  the  coffin  in  his  lap,  he  laughed  aloud. 

It  was  years  afterward,  when  his  uncle  had 
quitted  the  town  for  a  larger  field  somewhere  in 
the  West  that  the  brooding  solitary  boy  compre 
hended  the  full  meaning  of  that  day's  ride,  and  it 
gave  him  an  insight  into  the  quality  of  human 
sympathy  that  one  can  safely  rely  upon  receiving 
in  the  hour  of  need,  far  beyond  his  age.  It  served 
to  augment  a  peculiar  harshness  of  belief — a 
wish  to  keep  to  himself  and  from  contact  with 
others. 

The  family's  poverty,  which  was  beyond  denial 
or  subterfuge,  only  intensified  this  characteristic. 
His  pride  was  like  a  raw  sore; — the  kindest  touch 
was  positive  pain  for  him.  Anything  that  savored 
of  patronage  or  of  condescension  met  with  an 
instant  and  rude  rebuff. 

The  Beckers — for  the  family  was  known  by  this 
name — a  tacit  recognition  of  Franz's  importance 
and  the  family's  unimportance  that  offended  no 
one  more  than  it  did  Franz — were  extremely  im 
posing  as  to  numbers,  with  a  majority  in  favor  of 
the  sterner  sex,  and  the  old  shoemaker's  patriot 
ism  had  been  evinced  in  the  naming  of  his  numer 
ous  offspring. 

On  the  particular  Sunday  in  .question  the  mid- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  261 

day  meal  was  rendered  more  cheerful  than  other 
wise  by  Bismarck  and  Von  Molke,  the  two  most 
youthful  of  Franz's  half-brothers,  who  upset  divers 
mugs  of  milk  as  well  as  pretty  thoroughly  smear 
ing  their  small  features  with  chicken  gravy.  Bis 
marck  was  finally  ordered  from  the  table  by  his 
father  in  very  broken  English  because  of  some 
flagrant  breach  of  good  manners. 

His  exodus  was  shortly  followed  by  that  of  his 
brothers  and  sisters  who  were  in  transit  through 
that  state  of  physical  incompleteness,  the  sign  of 
which  is  seen  in  the  combining  of  long  legs  with 
diffidence. 

These  had  eaten  as  though  on  a  wager  and  one 
by  one  as  they  finished  their  meal  slipped  from 
their  seats  and  took  themselves  off,  the  last 
mouthful  in  process  of  mastication. 

Soon  there  remained  only  the  old  shoemaker, 
his  wife,  Franz,  Philip  and  Von  Molke — who  still 
toiled  manfully,  albeit  wearily,  with  a  spoon  tight- 
clutched  in  his  chubby  fist  at  whatever  came  with 
in  reach. 

Bismarck  had  reappeared  upon  the  scene.  Into 
his  small  soul  neither  modesty  nor  diffidence  had 
ever  seeped  even  in  microscopic  quantities  and  he 
skirmished  noiselessly  about  the  room,  always 
heedful  of  his  father's  guttural  command  to  "go 
away" — promptly  exiting  at  one  door  to  appear 
as  promptly  at  another  with  recriminations  hoarse 
upon  his  lips  against  Von  Molke,  whose  appetite, 


262        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

generated  with  a  nice  knowledge  of  its  capacity, 
bade  fair  to  outlast  the  pudding. 

With  cold  malignancy  the  latter's  periodic  cry 
of,  "More,  please,"  would  sound,  and  up  would 
go  his  plate  in  spite  of  his  brother's  muffled  en 
treaties  that  he  should  desist.  In  this  manner 
Bismarck  saw  the  last  fragment  of  the  pudding 
disposed  of,  which  sight  so  maddened  him  that  he 
forgot  all  caution  and  darted  at  Von  Molke  intent 
upon  wresting  the  coveted  prize  from  his  posses 
sion. 

In  the  moment  of  victory  the  strong  arm  of 
paternal  law  was  interposed  between  the  com 
batants  and  the  assailant,  hotly  pursued  by  the 
assailed,  was  borne  from  the  room  in  his  father's 
arms  to  meet  his  punishment  in  the  back  yard. 

"Come,"  Franz  said,  rising.  "Come,  let  us  go 
to  my  room." 

And  Philip  followed  him,  hearing  him  mutter 
as  he  went:  "Can  he  not  wait  when  my  friend  is 
here?" 

It  was  a  large  bare  apartment  they  entered, 
carpetless  and  curtainless,  with  an  iron  bedstead 
at  one  side  and  a  hideously  ornate  stove  at  the 
other. 

Philip  lounged  down  into  a  chair,  searching  in 
his  pocket  for  pipe  and  tobacco. 

Without — for  the  room  overlooked  the  back 
yard — they  could  hear  Bismarck  and  his  father. 
The  former  was  crying,  while  his  parent  was  ex- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  263 

postulating  with  him  in  mixed  German  and  Eng 
lish,  but  the  sounds  of  grief  continued  with  no 
show  of  abatement. 

"He  has  a  vile  temper,"  Franz  said,  "when  he  is 
angry.  The  little  boys  are  not  bad  as  such  little 
beasts  go." 

"I  think  them  amusing,"  Philip  responded. 
"The  way  in  which  a  child  profits  by  the  pres 
ence  of  guests  to  gorge  himself  on  dainties  is  a 
fair  example  of  uncontrolled  human  nature." 

Just  then  they  heard  the  patter  of  small  feet  be 
yond  the  door  and  a  faint  voice  saying:  "I  want 
in!" 

It  was  Bismarck,  and  he  waited  for  no  an 
swer,  but  inserted  himself  ingratiatingly  into  the 
room,  presenting  a  countenance  whereon  grief 
and  gravy  had  combined  with  disastrous  results. 

He  was  still  sobbing  but  managed  to  gasp: 

"I  ain't  hurt.  It  ain't  that — but  I  do  hate  to 
have  a  darned  old  foreigner  bang  me  about — it 
hurts  my  feelings!" 

And  he  made  a  dive  into  Franz's  lap,  burying 
his  head  against  his  breast  where  for  exactly  three 
minutes  he  remained  with  wriggling  legs  a  victim 
of  keen  despair. 

"There  is  Americanism  for  you  with  a  ven 
geance,  Franz,"  said  Philip. 

The  three  minutes  having  expired  and  native 
depravity  having  usurped  the  place  of  anguish, 
Bismarck  was  forcibly  expelled  from  the  room 


264        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

and  withdrew  to  more  congenial  fellowship  with 
his  brothers. 

Philip  broke  the  silence  that  succeeded  Bis 
marck's  expulsion  in  which  they  had  both  been 
actively  engaged. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  whole 
week,  Franz.  However,  I  don't  suppose  you 
have  anything  good  to  tell  me."  Franz  made  a 
savage  gesture  that  fully  expressed  a  large  dis 
gust. 

"Do  you  know,  Franz,"  Philip  continued,  "we 
haven't  originated  much  over  here  except  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  and  a  beastly  bar 
gain-counter  spirit  in  relation  to  the  arts."  He 
paused  a  moment,  then  added  laughingly:  "One 
knows  so  much  at  twenty-four.  I  am  frequently 
astonished  at  the  scope  of  my  critical  capacity. 
It  must  be  hereditary  with  me, — you  know  my 
father  was  a  minister.  They  are  the  only  class 
of  men  who  enjoy  the  delightful  privilege  of  un 
restricted  judgment.  In  that  profession  simple 
ignorance  is  not  a  hindrance,  but  rather  a  help." 

Franz  was  in  no  mood  for  frivolity.  "You  are 
more  than  apt  to  offend  people  by  what  you  say. 
Of  course  with  me  it  makes  no  difference.  You 
should  be  more  thoughtful." 

"I  offend  people,  my  dear  fellow;  that's  what 
I  am  living  for." 

Becker  voiced  the  thought  that  was  uppermost 
in  his  mind:  "My  father  and  mother  think  I  am 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  265 

as  successful  as  any  man  need  be.  They  do  not 
comprehend  that  what  I  am  doing  now  is  drudg 
ery,  a  present  makeshift  only — that  my  career 
is  all  before  me.  The  only  opportunity  I  have  had, 
and  I  should  scarcely  call  it  that,  was  five  years 
ago  when  I  went  to  New  York,  thinking,  for  I 
knew  no  better,  that  I  might  accomplish  some 
thing  there.  I  tramped  the  streets  for  days  in  my 
effort  to  get  a  hearing.  I  offered  my  manuscripts 
to  any  one  who  would  print  them,  as  a  gift. 
Bah!  it  was  the  same  always — native  work 
had  no  value.  If  I  could  only  get  to  Europe — 
there  they  know  what  is  music  and  what  is  rub 
bish.  My  father  and  mother  do  not  wish  to  be 
unkind  but  they  are  not  informed  in  these  mat 
ters,  and  when  I  came  back  beaten  and  more 
humiliated  than  I  can  say,  I  saw  they  were 
glad  of  my  failure.  Their  thought  was  that  I 
should  have  been  satisfied,  and  their  one  regret 
was  for  the  money  I  had  expended  in  so  vain 
an  undertaking." 

His  strong  face  showed  plainly  the  pain  that 
was  his — the  hunger  and  the  longing. 

Philip  thought  of  those  innumerable  younger 
brothers.  It  would  be  years  before  any  of  them 
could  come  to  the  front  and  ease  the  load  that  kept 
Franz's  shoulder  to  the  wheel;  meanwhile  he  was 
chained  to  a  spot  that  could  only  give  him  suffer 
ing.  There  was  danger,  too,  in  the  waiting.  He 
might  lose  the  very  power  to  utilize  his  liberty 


266         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

when  it  did  come.  Men  sometimes  survive  their 
inspiration  and  their  genius. 

Becker  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair:  "We 
spend  years  in  toiling  for  a  little  money  that  we 
may  purchase  opportunity  and  then  —  then,  we 
die.  Bah!  what  a  fool  one  is  to  hope  when  the 
chances  are  all  against  him." 

"Did  you  ever  speculate  on  the  final  adjust 
ment?  God's  apology  to  man?" 

Franz  shook  his  head  :  "What  presumption,  to 
suppose  God  keeps  any  record  of  us  —  such  atoms 
as  we  are!" 


" 


Not  at  all.  My  religion  holds  the  splendid 
comfort  of  conceit  and  is  based  on  the  thought 
that  man  —  and  by  man  I  mean  primarily  myself 
—  is  all,  that  my  work,  my  good  resolutions  — 
which  are  a  source  of  constant  annoyance  and  dis 
tress  to  me  —  entitle  me  to  certain  favors  in  this 
world  and  the  world  to  come.  To  be  sure,  opposi 
tion  to  the  divine  will  is  rather  useless  —  at  best 
we  can  but  squirm  like  very  small  fish  over  a 
hot  fire.  Still,  I  shall  make  reparation  for  the 
absurdity  of  my  beliefs  by  the  dignity  and  per 
sistency  of  my  revolt,  on  much  the  same  prin 
ciple  that  prompts  me  to  swear  when  I  hurt  my 
self  by  a  foolish  attempt  to  walk  through  an  ob 
structed  doorway  in  the  dark,  not  that  it  does  any 
good,  but  just  to  express  my  contempt  for  the 
inexorable." 

Franz    smoked    his    pipe    thoughtfully.      Philip 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  267 

occasionally  shocked  even  his  liberal  ideas  of  pro 
priety.  They  sat  looking  at  the  hideous  little 
stove  for  a  space  and  neither  spoke.  At  last 
Philip  said : 

"Why,  I  say,  haven't  you  a  sort  of  a  half-uncle 
in  the  West  who  could  help  you  if  he  would? 
Can't  you  bone  him  for  a  start?" 

Franz's  brow  darkened  instantly :  "You  mean 
my  step-father's  brother?  Don't  speak  of  him." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Philip  made  haste  to 
say.  "The  fact  is,  I  can  stand  almost  anything 
in  the  shape  of  misfortune  myself,  except  my  rela 
tives,  but  I  thought  it  might  be  different  with 
you." 

"You  do  not  comprehend.  This  person  I  loathe. 
It  is  nothing  to  him,  of  course.  He  is  a  rich  man. 
I  wonder  what  good  money  can  do  a  brute  like 
that?" 

He  looked  out  of  the  window,  watching  the 
dead  leaves  the  wind  was  blowing  into  drifts 
against  the  fence  in  the  yard  below,  and  added 
almost  sadly:  "I  think  hate  has  been  a  more 
potent  factor  in  my  growth  than  love — at  least 
it  has  stirred  my  heart  the  deepest." 

"So  your  uncle  is  out  of  the  question  even 
though  he  should  be  willing  to  aid  you?" 

Becker  struck  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  remark 
ing  as  he  did  so:  "What  can  I  do  that  will  give 
me  the  longed-for  opportunity?  You  are  usually 
prolific  in  good  advice." 


268        THE  HAND  OF,  THE  MIGHTY 

"You  might  marry  money." 

"Never!"  Franz  interposed  quickly.  His  friend's 
love-affair  met  with  his  strongest  disapproval. 

Philip  ignored  the  interruption:  "Now  there  is 
Mrs.  Monroe.  I  have  young  Perkins'  word  for 
it  that  she  admires  you  immensely.  I  am  credit 
ably  informed  she  enjoys  a  fair  income  and  she  is 
still  handsome  and  shapely — thanks  to  God  and 
her  tailor!  Even  the  tooth  of  time  has  been 
dulled  on  her  hardy  anatomy.  Franz,  there  is 
your  chance." 

"Don't  be  a  fool!     Do  you  think  I " 

Franz  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  an  ex 
ceedingly  pleasant  voice  that  arose  from  the  hall 
below.  The  voice  was  assuring  some  one  that 
its  owner  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the  way  to 
Franz's  room  and  was  declining  all  proffers  of  as 
sistance  in  finding  it,  with  profuse  thanks. 

Becker  and  Philip  had  paused  to  listen,  and 
now  the  latter  said :  "I  rather  fancy  it's  Perkins." 

A  moment  after  a  gentle  tap  sounded  on  the 
door,  accompanied  by,  "May  I  come  in?" 

In  response  to  Becker's  bidding  the  door  opened 
and  Perkins  stood  before  them. 

Now  there  are  awful  depths  of  oblivion  that 
may  be  sounded  in  a  small  town,  and  not  to  know 
the  Perkinses  was  one  of  these  depths,  for  that  was 
to  argue  yourself  unknown.  Yet,  to  his  credit 
be  it  said  that  Perkins  was  a  modest  youth,  de 
spite  his  temptation  to  gloat  in  the  fact  that  his 
family  represented  two  generations  of  riches; 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  269 

which  was  by  far  the  most  splendid  incident  in 
their  'history. 

Young  Perkins  was  not  adapted  to  gloating. 
He  was  a  youth  with  a  supersensitive  conscience 
and  sandy  side-whiskers,  which  grew  out  stubbily 
from  an  equally  sandy  complexion,  and  he  would 
be  polite  to  everybody,  which  was  a  sheer  weak 
ness  on  his  part  and  not  to  be  excused  on  any 
plea  whatever. 

What  Perkins  did  not  do  his  mother  in  nowise 
remedied,  for  she  quarreled  with  her  kind  on  a 
footing  of  perfect  equality  charming  to  behold, 
setting  herself  up  for  no  better  than  the  rest. 

Perkins  stood  before  his  friends,  breathless  from 
his  run  up  the  stairs,  his  whole  appearance  indi 
cating  unusual  excitement.  He  dropped  down  into 
the  chair  Franz  pushed  toward  him,  saying: 

"Wait  a  minute  till  I  get  my  wind.  I  am  quite 
floored  because  of  several  things  that  have  taken 
place  to-day." 

He  wiped  his  florid  face  vigorously  with  his 
handkerchief. 

"I — you  see — that  is,  my  mother  received  word 
yesterday  from  Madame  Dennee,  of  Paris — Paris, 
France,  you  know — that  she  is  in  America.  In 
New  York,  I  think.  Madame  Dennee  is  the  wi 
dow  of  Gabrielle  Honore  Dennee,  who  was  a  very 
distinguished  man  in  France,  prior  to  his  death. 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  he  did  and  my 
mother  has  never  told  me,  but  whatever  it  was 


270        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

I  am  certain  he  did  it  and  it  was  uncommon. 
There  was  a  stack  of  money  in  it.  He  was  a 
banker,  you  know." 

"Look  here,  Perkins/'  Philip  remonstrated. 
"What  is  this  all  about?" 

"But,  you  don't  catch  what  I  am  driving  at," 
Perkins  cried  eagerly;  "he  married  my  mother's 
cousin." 

"Who  did?"  Philip  asked. 

"Monsieur  Dennee." 

"Oh —well,  go  ahead." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  am  trying  to  do.  He 
married  Miss  Ballard,  my  mother's  cousin.  That 
was  before  he  died,  of  course.  My  mother  was  a 
Ballard  and  as  you  are  both  aware,  that's  my 
first  name,  and  they  were  very  celebrated  people." 

Perkins  was  still  polishing  his  freckled  features 
till  they  fairly  glistened.  He  finally  tucked  his 
handkerchief  resolutely  into  his  pocket  and  folded 
his  hands. 

"I  must  get  this  straight,  I  am  quite  excited. 
Permit  me  to  get  my  breath." 

And  he  gazed  benignantly  at  his  friends  from 
under  his  white  lashes,  a  beaming  smile  playing 
over  his  countenance  and  dying  away  in  the  stub 
by  growth  of  his  side-whiskers. 

"You  fellows  must  have  mercy  upon  me  a  mo 
ment  longer.  What  I  wish  to  tell  you  is  this: 
On  Saturday  Madame  Dennee  is  supposed  to  have 
left  New  York  for  this  place.  I  assure  you  we 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  271 

were  completely  overwhelmed  by  the  news,  for 
while  we — my  mother  that  is — is  her  only  living 
relative  in  America,  the  family  connection  has 
been  allowed  to  languish.  Heretofore  my  mother 
has  made  it  a  point  to  fight  industriously  with 
every  Ballard  with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 
That's  a  distinctly  Ballard  trait,  and  in  addition 
to  the  inherited  and  warlike  instincts  of  her  race, 
my  mother's  element  is  hot  water.  Very  hot,  you 
know,  and  I  must  admit  it  is  seldom  you  find  a 
person  who  spends  less  time  out  of  her  element 
than  my  mother.  However,  she  has  told  me 
it  will  be  the  proudest  moment  of  her  life  when 
Madame  Dennee  enters  her  house,  so  I  am  hope 
ful  the  hatchet  will  be  buried  blade  down."  With 
a  stifled  gasp,  Perkins  came  to  a  pause. 

"See  here,  Perkins,"  Philip  said,  "what  is  it  you 
are  trying  to  tell  us?  Come,  don't  keep  it  all  to 
yourself.  Let  us  into  the  secret.  That's  a  good 
fellow." 

"My  dear  Philip,  I  pledge  you  my  sacred  word 
of  honor  my  one  wish  is  to  enlighten  you,  but  I 
appear  little  better  than  a  candle  whose  light  is 
placed  under  a  bushel."  He  looked  pathetically 
from  one  to  the  other  of  his  auditors.  "Allow 
me  to  get  started  right.  I  trust  I  have  made 
it  clear  to  you  that  I  have  a  cousin,  Madame 
Dennee  and  she  is  a  widow  lady." 

"Widow  alone  is  sufficient.  It  establishes  her 
sex  beyond  dispute.  Don't  use  the  word  lady 


272        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

when  you  can  possibly  avoid  doing  so.  It's  a 
hard  worked  word  these  days/'  Philip  advised. 

"Oh,  pardon  me.  Well,  Madame  Dennee,  who 
is  a  widow,  has  announced  her  intention  of  com 
ing  to  us  and  we  are  overwhelmed  by  the  honor, 
for  of  course  my  cousin  is  a  woman  of  the  great 
est  elegance  and  culture.  Must  be,  you  know. 
But  what" — and  his  voice  rose  in  a  quaver  of 
nervous  objection — "but  what  have  we  to  offer 
her  either  in  our  mode  of  living  or  in  a  social  way 
that  will  please  her?  It  will  all  seem  so  stupid 
here  after  what  she  has  been  accustomed  to." 

"Don't  abuse  the  town,"  Franz  said.  "It  will 
be  a  liberal  education  to  her." 

"Along  a  very  illiberal  line,"  Philip  added. 

"Oh,  hang  the  town!  It's  how  we  are  going 
to  entertain  her  that  gets  me." 

"You  are  a  host  in  yourself,  Perkins,  and  very 
funny,"  Becker  remarked  laughingly. 

"When  is  she  coming?"  Philip  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  didn't  tell  you  that,  did  I?"  Per 
kins  shook  off  his  dejection.  "The  letter  was  re 
ceived  yesterday.  In  it  she  simply  said  she  would 
like  to  visit  us  if  convenient  and  be  our  guest  for 
a  little  while.  We  were  to  wire  our  answer  and 
our  answer  was,  'Come/  What  the  dickens  else 
could  we  have  said  even  if  we  had  wanted  to? 
All  this  that  I  have  told  you  took  place  yesterday 
and  since  then  consternation  has  reigned  supreme. 
My  mother's  hair  has  been  done  up  in  curl-papers 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  273 

for  the  last  thirty-six  hours,  tight  twisted,  and  has 
given  her  a  raging  headache.  The  house  is  no 
better  than  a  howling  wilderness.  I  pledge  you  my 
sacred  word  of  honor  that  I  ate  my  supper  last 
night  on  the  back-stairs  off  a  sewing-board  held 
in  my  lap  and  I  was  mighty  thankful  to  get 
it  then.  This  morning  I  went  without  breakfast. 
Dinner  I  ate  from  a  shelf  in  the  back  pantry  with 
a  soup  ladle  and  all  because  Madame  Dennee  is 
somewhere  between  here  and  New  York  contem 
plating  a  descent  upon  us.  I  have  taken  curl 
papers  out  of  the  water  pitcher,  and  as  I  hope  for 
mercy  hereafter  there  was  one  in  the  cold  soup 
forming  the  bulk  of  my  dinner  to-day." 

Perkins  became  pensive  for  just  the  briefest 
space  possible  and  a  rather  melancholy  smile  over 
spread  his  face. 

"I  say,  did  you  fellows  ever  eat  soup — cold 
soup — with  curl-papers?  Because  if  you  never  did 
— don't.  It's  about  the  most  thoroughly  revolu 
tionary  thing  a  man  can  do." 

"You  haven't  told  us  yet  when  she  is  coming," 
Philip  remarked.  "When  will  it  be,  to-morrow?" 

"That's  what  we  are  looking  forward  to." 

"How  old  is  she,  anyhow?"  And  Philip  pro 
pounded  one  of  the  inquiries  a  young  man  is  al 
most  sure  to  make  sooner  or  later  concerning  a 
woman. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  I  can't  tell.  Forty  or  fifty 
though,  I  should  say  at  a  guess." 


274         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Philip  yawned.  Madame's  age  made  the  whole 
affair  seem  very  tame  and  unattractive  to  him. 
Perkins  rambled  on: 

"That's  the  deuce  of  it.  She  will  be  old  enough 
to  take  an  interest  in  me.  Women  are  forever 
taking  an  interest  in  me — a  controlling  interest  you 
know — forever  thinking  I  should  be  at  work  at 
something  or  other,  just  to  keep  me  out  of 
scrapes.  And  that's  all  bosh !  I  don't  think  there's 
any  use  for  me  to  work,  except  perhaps  to  kill 
time,  and  I  really  couldn't  do  that,  for  in  the  end 
time  will  kill  me  and  I  shall  be  laid  out  stiff  you 
know,  quite  dead,  with  tuberoses — " 

"Limp  you  mean,"  growled  Franz  correctively. 
"Where  the  devil  did  you  ever  get  the  notion  that 
you  could  be  stiff?" 

"I  hope  I  didn't  seem  vain  when  I  said  women 
were  interested  in  me,  you  know  I  mean  those 
who  are  old  enough  to  know  better,"  Perkins 
ventured  writh  much  meekness,  folding  his  hands 
over  a  stomach  of  which  Philip  was  wont  to  re 
mark,  much  to  its  owner's  agony,  that  it  was 
coming  rapidly  to  the  front. 

"Of  course  you  will  invite  us  up  to  the  house 
when  your  cousin  comes,"  the  latter  said.  "Franz 
and  I  shall  be  immensely  happy  to  call." 

Perkins  brightened  visibly.  "I  thought  you 
rather  slumped  when  I  told  you  her  age.  To  be 
sure  you  are  to  call.  Did  I  ever  speak  of  her 
brother  to  you — Geoffrey  Ballard?  I  know  a  good 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  275 

deal  more  about  him  than  I  do  about  her.  He 
has  been  in  America  frequently.  In  fact,  as  far 
as  France  goes,  he  is  an  exile :  got  into  some  diffi 
culty  and  was  forced  to  leave  the  country." 

This  was  said  with  studied  carelessness;  never 
theless  it  was  plainly  discernible  that  Perkins 
was  accessible  to  the  mild  glow  of  pride  which  a 
perfectly  respectable  and  well  conducted  youth 
usually  feels  in  those  of  his  family  who  have  won 
their  laurels  in  the  shaded  realms  of  the  disre 
putable. 

"I  guess  he  is  a  very  bad  lot.  Once  my  father 
chanced  to  meet  him  in  New  York.  My  father 
was  fascinated  by  him  and  on  the  strength  of  the 
good  impression  he  had  made,  Ballard  borrowed 
several  hundred  dollars.  He  told  a  very  plausible 
tale  about  a  remittance  from  home  that  he  was 
expecting.  No  sooner  had  he  obtained  an  ad 
vance  on  what  was  coming  than  he  got  out  of 
the  way  and  it  was  the  last  father  ever  saw  of 
him.  He  must  have  been  very  clever  though,  be 
cause  you  know  my  father  was  never  a  very  great 
hand  to  lend  money." 

His  friends  were  too  courteous  to  inform  him 
of  their  perfect  acquaintance  with  his  father's 
posthumous  reputation  for  close-fistedness,  but 
Philip  could  not  resist  saying  casually: 

"I  can  readily  believe  that  Ballard  must  be  a 
very  remarkable  fellow." 

"Oh,    no,"    Perkins    responded    innocently,    de- 


276         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

lighted  that  he  was  commanding  Philip's  atten 
tion  ;  "we  heard  afterward  he  was  a  wild  one — 
that  he  gambled  and  did  all  sorts  of  dishonorable 
things.  Of  course  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  either 
of  you  mention  it,  but  once  he  pretty  nearly  killed 
a  man  in  a  duel.  It  was  over  a  woman,  you 
know." 

And  he  looked  highly  scandalized — proud  and 
happy,  too,  for  it's  not  every  day  one  can  tell  of 
a  cousin  who  fights  duels. 

It  was  getting  dark;  the  afternoon  was  drawing 
to  an  end  and  while  Perkins  was  still  giving  the 
details  of  which  he  was  master,  that  related  to 
Geoffrey  Ballard's  career,  Philip  had  arisen  from 
his  chair. 

"I  shall  say  good  night,"  he  remarked.  "It  is 
time  I  was  on  my  way  home." 

IV 

That  afternoon  while  Perkins  was  busy  dis 
cussing  with  his  two  friends  the  expected  ar 
rival  of  his  mother's  cousin,  the  Perkins'  home, 
some  six  blocks  distant,  was  the  scene  of  vio 
lent  Sabbath-breaking.  It  is  but  fair  to  state 
that  the  house-cleaning  was  done  with  a  careful 
regard  for  the  moral  sentiment  of  the  community, 
being  of  a  secretive  nature.  In  the  house,  in  the 
midst  of  the  disorder  she  had  created,  moved  Mrs. 
Perkins,  appareled  in  a  gown  decidedly  the  worse 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  277 

for  wear  and  whose  frayed  train  was  momentarily 
collecting  deposits  of  dust  on  its  under  edge. 

Mrs.  Perkins  had  been  a  beauty  of  the  magnifi 
cent  order.  Perkins'  sandy  hair,  complexion  and 
freckles,  were  the  gift  of  his  father.  The  curl 
papers  to  which  her  son  had  made  honorable  ref 
erence  were  conspicuous  objects  in  her  disordered 
costume,  while  her  face  was  embellished  with  sun 
dry  dabs  of  dirt. 

The  Perkins'  home  was  the  finest  in  the  town, 
but  now  it  was  in  a  state  of  wild  confusion.  The 
furnishings  from  the  numerous  rooms  had  been 
dragged  into  the  halls  where  they  accumulated 
in  defiant  heaps.  Mrs.  Perkins  surveyed  the 
ruin.  "Where,  where  did  it  all  come  from?"  she 
asked  tragically. 

At  that  moment  had  Mrs.  Perkins  lent  a  listen 
ing  ear  she  might  have  heard,  disturbing  the  Sun 
day  quiet  that  filled  the  broad  street  outside  with 
its  peaceful  repose,  the  distant  rumble  of  wheels, 
foretelling  the  approach  of  some  heavy  vehicle. 

"I  think,  Anna,"  and  she  addressed  herself  to 
her  principal  assistant,  "I  think,  Anna,  this  will 
be  a  lesson  to  me ! — a  lesson  I  shall  not  soon  for 
get.  What  are  you  looking  at?"  For  Anna  was 
staring  fixedly  out  of  the  window  paying  no  heed 
to  her  mistress'  remarks. 

Even  as  she  spoke  Mrs.  Perkins  caught  the 
sound  of  wheels  as  they  rolled  over  the  hard 
gravel  of  the  carriageway  below  the  window. 


278         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  believe  they  have  come,"  Anna  said,  her  nose 
against  the  glass.  "I  declare  it  looks  like  them. 
There  are  two  of  them  and  both  are  in  black." 

At  the  news  Mrs.  Perkins  sank  down  upon  a 
chair  completely  overcome.  "No,  you  can't  mean 
it,  Anna!  For  heaven's  sake,  look  again!" 

"There's  two  of  them,"  Anna  answered  tri 
umphantly.  "They're  both  getting  out.  It's 
them." 

Whereat  Mrs.  Perkins  let  fall  two  tears  which 
plowed  their  way  through  the  dust  upon  her 
cheek  and  fell  with  a  muddy  splash  to  the  folded 
hands  in  her  lap. 

"That  I  should  have  lived  to  see  this  day !" 
she  moaned. 

"Shan't  I  go  down  and  let  them  in?"  asked 
Anna. 

"No.     I  shall  go  myself." 

Mrs.  Perkins  arose,  summoning  up  all  the  maj 
esty  of  bearing  at  her  command,  and  surveyed 
the  faded  silk  wrapper  that  hung  limply  and  dust 
ily  to  her  figure  with  profound  disgust. 

"I  suppose  I  must — but,  what  an  impression  I 
shall  give  her.  Run  to  her  room  and  make 
sure  all  is  right  there.  Thank  heaven!  I  had  the 
wisdom  to  see  to  that,  and  there  is  a  quiet  spot 
to  which  she  can  retire." 

So  speaking  Mrs.  Perkins  hurried  down-stairs 
in  response  to  the  bell  that  was  sounding  for  the 
second  time.  With  a  final  desperate  clutch  at  the 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  279 

curl-papers,  a  hasty  adjusting  of  her  skirts  to 
gether  with  a  last  shake  to  free  them  from  dust 
and  lint,  she  opened  the  door.  Mrs.  Perkins  after 
ward  described  her  sensations  as  startling. 

In  common  with  her  son  she  had  anticipated 
welcoming  a  woman  of  mature  years :  instead  she 
saw  two  women.  Both  were  in  black,  but  one 
wore  the  especial  garments  custom  has  made  the 
sign  of  widowhood.  The  heavy  veil  was  thrown 
back,  revealing  a  face  at  once  youthful  and  beau 
tiful  but  of  an  extremely  pallid  coloring  though  it 
was  touched  with  just  the  faintest  glow,  born 
perhaps  of  expectancy  and  excitement. 

This  was  all  Mrs.  Perkins'  bewildered  faculties 
had  time  to  grasp  for  the  stranger  said  with  a 
sweet  little  dignity  that  became  her  well,  advanc 
ing  a  step  as  she  did  so:  "I  am  Margaret  Dennee." 

Her  voice  was  beautifully  soft,  and  in  its  enun 
ciation  suggestive  of  her  foreign  birth  and  edu 
cation. 

"I  was  expecting  some  one  twice  your  age," 
Mrs.  Perkins  said,  laughing  in  sheer  surprise.  Her 
astonishment  had  so  much  the  better  of  any  re 
serve  she  had  decided  to  show  in  the  company  of 
her  distinguished  kinswoman,  that  she  simply 
used  the  words  that  came  most  readily  to  her 
tongue. 

"Why,  you  are  nothing  but  a  child,  a  mere 
child,  and  you  are  Madame  Dennee?"  As  she 
spoke  she  held  out  her  hand.  "But  do  come  in; 


280        THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

the  man  wants  to  get  by  with  your  baggage." 
And  she  drew  her  into  the  hall,  the  maid  follow 
ing,  leaving  the  steps  to  the  driver  and  the  trunks. 

That  evening  was  destined  to  remain  forever 
more  or  less  of  a  blank  in  Madame  Dennee's  mem 
ory.  She  was  conscious  only  of  the  warmth  of 
her  welcome  and  an  overpowering  sense  of  fa 
tigue. 

Her  real  comprehension  of  events  commenced 
on  Monday  morning  when  she  was  aroused  from 
her  sleep  by  the  pelting  of  rain  against  the  west 
windows  of  her  room,  accompanied  by  the  steady 
and  persistent  drip,  drip,  of  the  water-spout's  over 
flow  beneath  the  eaves  to  the  sodden  ground 
below. 

She  had  been  in  America  ten  days  and  in  all 
that  time  had  seen  but  one  streak  of  murky  sun 
shine  stealing  from  behind  the  masses  of  vapor 
that  drifted  above  the  wet  earth.  Wind  and  rain 
had  seemed  to  pursue  her  with  absolute  ill  will  as 
though  the  weather  itself  was  determined  to  drive 
her  out  of  the  country  and  compel  her  to  seek 
her  usual  winter's  asylum  in  the  south  of  France. 

Raising  her  head  from  the  pillows,  she  surveyed 
the  room.  A  fire  was  burning  brightly  upon  the 
hearth,  the  curtains  at  the  windows  were  drawn, 
shutting  out  all  evidences  of  the  season's  inclem 
ency,  save  the  steady  and  unceasing  sound  made 
by  the  storm. 

Staying  in  bed  offered  superior  advantages  to 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  281 

getting  up.  [With  a  sigh  of  contentment  she 
nestled  down  drawing  the  covering  about  her, 
then  closing  her  eyes  and  soothed  by  the  contrast 
between  the  storm  from  without  and  the  cheerful 
crackling  of  the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  she  gave 
herself  up  to  thought. 

The  look  upon  the  small  face  resting  pallid  and 
white  against  the  whiteness  of  the  pillows  was 
far  from  happy,  for  madame  dwelt  much  upon 
the  unprofitableness  of  her  past. 

There  were  many  reasons  that  might  have  in 
duced  the  young  girl  to  marry  a  man  fifty  years 
her  senior — many  reasons — and  yet  all  of  them 
were  far  removed  from  the  realm  of  the  affec 
tions.  This  Margaret  Dennee  knew  well,  and  to 
her  sorrow. 

She  would  have  liked  to  forget  it  all — indeed, 
the  wish  had  extended  over  the  last  three  years 
and  resulted  only  in  the  positive  knowledge  that 
one  can  forget  anything  provided  one  wishes  to 
remember  it,  or  it  is  useful.  Bitterness  alone  is 
defiant  in  the  presence  of  forget  fulness. 

She  had  at  nineteen  married  Monsieur  Dennee 
and  had  endured  two  years  as  his  wife,  then, 
mercifully  for  her,  he  had  died. 

A  woman  differently  constituted  would  have 
thanked  God  for  the  release  and  set  about  enjoy 
ing  herself,  making  merry  with  her  late  lord's 
wealth.  In  her  case,  however,  three  years  had 
been  spent  in  a  vain  effort  to  rid  herself  of  some 


282         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

portion  of  the  horror  begotten  in  her  soul  by  the 
sacrifice  she  had  made.  There  had  been  but  one 
governing  motive  in  the  ill-omened  marriage — 
to  get  money  for  her  brother. 

Monsieur  Dennee  had  promised  to  pay  well  for 
her  charms  and  had  kept  his  word  with  the  result 
that  Goeffrey  Ballard  had  been  freed  from  his 
pressing  debts  and  given  a  new  start  and  another 
chance  to  wreck  himself — a  chance  of  which  he 
had  availed  himself  most  speedily,  so  that  six 
months  after  the  marriage  no  mortal  could  have 
said  wherein  lay  the  profits  or  where  his  condition 
was  any  better  than  before  the  crime  had  been 
consummated. 

Margaret  wondered  often  how  she  had  survived 
those  years  of  misery, — not  that  Monsieur  Dennee 
was  unkind;  he  had  simply  never  succeeded  in 
inspiring  his  young  wife  with  one  single  spark  of 
love.  It  had  resolved  itself  from  the  first  into 
dumb  and  uncomplaining  sufferance  on  her  part. 

Nearness  to  him  had  caused  her  but  one  feeling 
— a  dreadful  repulsion — a  horrible  desire  almost 
exceeding  her  control  to  cry  out  as  if  in  pain, 
whenever  he  had  touched  her. 

Under  this  strain  she  had  lived  for  two  long 
years,  then  came  freedom;  but  the  iron  had  en 
tered  her  soul.  Her  whole  nature  was  saddened 
and  embittered  beyond  forgetfulness. 

A  morbid  dread  that  she  had  confided  to  no 
one  had  taken  possession  of  her;  she  was  com- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  283 

pletely  at  the  mercy  of  her  own  distressing  fan 
cies  and  had  come  to  regard  her  marriage  as  a 
sin  unpardonable,  as  something  unforgivable  in 
the  eyes  of  God. 

At  best,  marriage  is  an  ordeal  for  any  woman, 
and  a  loveless  marriage  is  an  abominable  in 
stitution  of  torture.  Not  content  with  what 
could  not  be  banished,  try  as  she  might  to  live 
away  from  it,  she  had  some  vague  idea  of  a  recom 
pense  to  be  made,  an  indefinite  conception  of 
earthly  punishment  which  she  was  to  inflict  upon 
herself. 

It  was  this  conviction  that  prompted  her  to 
wear  the  deepest  mourning  as  a  matter  of  pen 
ance,  for  it  reminded  her  of  the  awfulness  of 
those  years,  accenting  and  keeping  the  recollection 
always  before  her  as  a  sin  she  must  not  condone. 

This  was  what  drifted  through  her  mind  while 
she  was  in  the  drowsy  state  that  is  neither  sleep 
ing  nor  waking.  With  something  like  a  sob  she 
came  to  herself  at  last. 

"Russell!"  she  called. 

Her  maid  came  from  the  adjoining  apartment 
where  for  the  last  hour  she  had  been  busy  un 
packing  trunks  and  arranging  her  mistress'  ward 
robe.  She  was  a  plain  featured  English  woman 
who  had  served  Margaret  faithfully  in  the  two 
capacities  of  nurse  and  maid. 

"Will  Madame  dress?"  she  asked. 

"Is  it  late?" 


284        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

"The  family  has  breakfasted." 

"I  hope  you  told  them  I  did  not  care  for  any 
thing  before  luncheon?" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"And  it  is  raining  again.  It  has  done  nothing 
but  rain  since  we  landed." 

While  they  were  speaking  Margaret  had  got 
into  a  long  loose  gown  and  moved  to  the  fire, 
where  Russell  had  already  placed  an  easy  chair 
for  her.  Wrapped  in  the  voluminous  folds  of  the 
garment  she  had  donned  she  seemed  quite  small 
and  very  slight.  Her  face  was  wholly  lacking  in 
color  except  for  a  faint  flush  that  at  times  burned 
on  either  cheek.  Her  hair,  in  two  massive  braids 
that  fell  below  her  waist,  was  a  rich  warm  brown 
in  the  shadow,  and  golden  where  the  light  touched 
it.  Her  hands  were  small  and  beautifully  shaped. 

Most  apparent  was  a  fragile  quality  of  face  and 
form  as  if  a  breath  might  wither  her. 

Sitting  in  the  great  armchair  and  shrinking 
down  toward  the  fire  for  warmth,  shivering  too, 
in  unison  with  every  gust  of  wind  or  rain  that 
spent  its  force  against  the  window,  one  could  but 
marvel  that  she  had  known  so  much  of  life. 

Russell  brushed  her  hair  gently,  taking  care  the 
strain  should  not  rest  upon  the  dainty  little  head. 

Margaret  gazed  thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  A 
certain  sad  aloofness  was  expressed  in  her  man 
ner  as  though  all  her  sorrows  had  been  borne 
without  friend  or  confidante. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  285 

"I  wonder  if  it's  like  this  every  day — without 
sunshine  or  clear  skies,"  she  murmured. 

Russell  did  not  respond  to  the  direct  question, 
but  finished  dressing  her  hair  and  stepped  to  the 
door,  saying: 

"There  is  some  one  knocking.  Perhaps  ma- 
dame's  cousin." 

As  she  spoke,  she  opened  it  and  Mrs.  Perkins 
asked  from  the  threshold:  "May  I  come  in?" 

For  answer  Margaret,  turning  in  her  chair,  ex 
tended  her  hand,  a  smile  upon  her  lips:  "If  you 
don't  mind  my  dressing.  I  fear  you  will  think 
me  lazy.  It  must  be  late." 

Mrs.  Perkins  bustled  to  her  side.  A  very  be 
coming  morning  toilet  contributed  its  due  propor 
tion  to  that  lady's  ease  and  comfort.  "Really,  my 
dear,  I  never  felt  so  strongly  drawn  to  any  one  as 
I  am  to  you."  As  she  spoke  she  bent  and  kissed 
Margaret  with  great  stateliness  and  ceremony. 
"You  are  not  at  all  like  the  Ballards  who  were 
military  people  and  much  given  to  combativeness. 
Your  poor  dear  mother  and  I  used  to  hold  most 
violent  controversies.  We  had  such  a  capacity 
for  differences;  it  always  came  to  the  surface 
when  we  were  thrown  much  together.  But  then 
it  was  a  family  trait  and  I  suppose  I  should  revere 
it  accordingly.  To  be  sure,  your  mother  was  a 
Ballard  only  by  marriage,  but  she  was  an  active 
partaker  in  the  traditional  characteristics.  Dear! 
dear!  how  antagonistic  we  were,  and  yet,  a  real 


286        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

affection  existed  between  us.  Now,  can't  you 
tell  me  something  about  yourself?" 

Mrs.  Perkins  drew  up  a  chair  and  Margaret 
took  one  of  her  hands  caressingly  in  her  own: 
"But  what  shall  I  tell  you?" 

"About  yourself,  my  dear.  About  yourself,  by 
all  means." 

"Ah !" — and  she  made  a  little  depreciative  ges 
ture — "I  am  such  an  ordinary  person.  There 
is  nothing  more  to  tell." 

Mrs.  Perkins  shifted  her  position:  "You  can't 
fancy  how  amazed  I  was  when  I  saw  you.  I  had 
understood  always  that  Monsieur  Dennee,  your 
late  husband,  was  a  man  of  very — what  shall  I 
say?" — she  paused  looking  into  Margaret's  eyes, 
seeking  earnestly  for  the  right  word,  but  the 
allusion  to  Monsieur  Dennee  did  not  stimulate  any 
great  burst  of  animation  on  the  part  of  his  widow, 
and  she  was  forced  to  finish  her  incomplete  sen 
tence  with,  "a  man  of  very  advanced  age." 

"He  was  seventy  years  old  when  we  were  mar 
ried,"  Margaret  said  quietly. 

Mrs.  Perkins  elevated  her  eyebrows.  "Why, 
you  are  young  enough  to  be  his  granddaughter!" 

"I  was  nineteen."  Her  face  had  hardened  per 
ceptibly  when  Mrs.  Perkins  spoke  her  husband's 
name,  and  at  the  mention  of  her  marriage  this 
changed  to  a  look  of  the  keenest  distress.  Mrs. 
Perkins  surmised  that  it  had  not  been  an  occur 
rence  of  the  utmost  happiness  to  the  girl-wife. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  287 

Intent  upon  getting  away  from  what  she  con 
ceived  to  be  a  disagreeable  subject,  though  still 
with  subdued  inquisitiveness,  she  said: 

"You  have  not  been  a  widow  then  so  very 
long?" 

"Three  years."  With  unmistakable  relief— "I 
have  lived  in  the  south  of  France  during  that  time, 
but  my  home  is  in  Paris.  Since  Monsieur  Den- 
neVs  death  I  have  not  cared  to  return  to  it."  A 
pause  followed. 

Mrs.  Perkins  tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot.  She 
knew  that  any  more  questions  would  be  in  very 
bad  form,  as  Margaret  had  shown  that  she  was 
adverse  to  constituting  herself  the  sole  center  of 
interest.  Truth  to  tell,  Mrs.  Perkins  was  rather 
abashed.  As  a  rule  she  had  no  compunctions 
when  it  came  to  catechising  newcomers  in  the 
town  as  to  their  past  and  possible  future.  Her 
position,  which  was  unassailable,  made  it  quite 
safe  to  seek  to  put  at  rest  all  uncertainty  under 
which  she  might  be  laboring.  But  Madame  Den- 
nee  was  distinctly  of  another  world.  Suddenly 
she  bethought  herself  of  her  son.  He  was,  as  she 
knew,  in  the  library  engaged  in  stroking  his  im 
mature  side-whiskers  and  wondering  if, — "she 
would  like  him,  anyhow." 

Sunday  evening  had  been  spent  in  the  society 
of  his  friend  Becker  and  when  he  had  presented 
himself  at  his  own  door  shortly  after  ten,  he  found 
his  mother  waiting  for  him,  with  a  glowing  ac- 


288        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

count  of  the  splendor,  beauty  and  culture  of  their 
young  relative  who  had  just  withdrawn  for  the 
night. 

"I  think  I  have  not  told  you  of  Ballard,  my  son, 
you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Perkins.  "May  I?" 

Madame  Dennee  inclined  her  head  by  way  of 
response,  and  Mrs.  Perkins  continued:  "He  is  wild 
to  meet  you.  For  of  course  when  he  came  in  last 
evening,  I  had  so  much  to  tell  him  about  you. 
He  so  regrets  that  he  should  have  been  absent. 
If  we  had  only  known  when  to  look  for  you  he 
would  have  been  waiting  for  you  at  the  train." 
Margaret  entreated  her  to  make  no  excuses.  The 
kindness  she  had  met  with  all  but  overwhelmed 
her  as  it  was,  she  said,  but  Mrs.  Perkins  was  not 
to  be  turned  aside  now  that  she  had  got  a  fresh 
start  with  plain  sailing  ahead  of  her. 

"My  dear,  he  so  regrets  he  did  not  know  of 
your  coming  in  season  to  meet  you.  Not  to  have 
done  so  seems  to  us  so  very  inhospitable." 

Margaret  pressed  her  hand  gently.  "You  are 
most  kind.  I  am  sure  I  shall  love  you  dearly  and 
perhaps/'  wistfully,  "perhaps,  you  will  grow  to 
like  me." 

"My  dear,  I  do  that  already.  I  am  drawn  to 
you  as  I  never  was  before  to  a — " 

"A  stranger  you  would  say?" 

"Yes,  and  no — for,  after  all,  you  are  my  cousin's 
child  and  that  means  much  to  me." 

Madame  Dennee  appeared  a  trifle  helpless  and 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  289 

as  though  she  was  incapable  of  meeting  these 
advances.  A  repellent  feeling — a  wish  to  keep 
from  close  friendships  had  grown  up  in  her  heart 
— springing  from  the  sure  consciousness  that  she 
stood  in  need  of  sympathy  and  love  and  would  be 
weakly  dependent  upon  it  once  it  was  hers;  but 
fearing  always  that  she  might  tell  those  things 
her  mind  most  fed  upon,  she  shrank  from  intima 
cies. 

Mrs.  Perkins  vacated  her  chair,  and  said  with 
a  trace  of  self-denial  in  her  voice:  "I  shall  let 
you  dress  now." 

With  this  she  quitted  the  room  and  joined 
young  Perkins  in  the  library.  She  found  him 
standing  on  a  corner  of  the  hearth-rug,  lost  in 
meditation. 

"I  hope  she  is  all  right,  mother,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes — she  will  be  down  presently." 

"Is  she  much  of  a  stunner  by  daylight?"  he 
inquired. 

"I  wish  you  would  be  more  select  in  your  ex 
pressions,  Ballard.  She  is  a  woman  of  the  great 
est  elegance." 

"You  like  her,  don't  you,  a  lot?" 

"I  confess  I  do.  There  is  something  indescrib 
ably  winning  in  her  manner.  I  think  her  mar 
riage  was  not  at  all  a  happy  one." 

Perkins  shook  his  head  wisely:  "He  must  have 
been  too  old  for  her,  you  know." 

"He  was  fifty  years  her  senior,  she  has  told  me." 


290        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

Perkins  was  expressing  his  amazement  at  such 
a  marriage,  when  the  door  opened  and  Margaret 
appeared  on  the  scene.  An  embarrassed  silence 
fell  upon  him  at  once.  He  barely  managed  to 
answer  the  greeting  she  gave  him. 

Long  before  that  Monday  was  ended  Ballard's 
interest  in  his  cousin  had  become  tremendous. 
When  night  came  he  was  her  abject  slave, — her 
worshipful  admirer  who  demanded  but  one  priv 
ilege,  that  he  might  still  be  allowed  to  worship 
— yet  no  one  could  have  asked  for  less  than  she. 
She  was  almost  timidly  sensitive  about  being  a 
care  or  burden  to  him  or  to  his  mother.  De 
spite  her  habitual  shrinking  from  nearer  contact 
or  sympathy,  Perkins  sat  for  the  most  of  the 
day  on  a  small  corner  of  his  chair,  his  knees 
tight  together  and  his  toes  turned  most  reso 
lutely  in,  like  a  plump  little  saffron-headed  Tro 
jan,  heroically  resolved  on  her  amusement.  The 
tension  under  which  he  put  himself,  was  so 
stupendous  that  he  absent-mindedly  twisted  every 
available  button  from  his  coat.  He  talked  on  in 
numerable  topics:  told  her  all  about  himself,  "Not 
because  I  think  myself  at  all  unusual,"  he  had 
been  careful  to  explain,  "but  because  I  am  so 
perfectly  acquainted  with  the  subject." 

He  racked  his  brain  for  fluent  descriptions  con 
cerning  his  loftier  emotions — told  her  his  most 
cherished  ambitions — "things  I  should  never 
dream  of  telling  any  one  else,"  he  said  very  truth- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  291 

fully.  "But  don't  you  know,  I  guess  you  call  for 
the  best  that  is  in  me." 

He  launched  forth  in  quest  of  miscellaneous 
data  and  was  soon  telling  her  of  Franz  Becker 
and  Philip  Southard.  When  he  told  her  Becker 
was  a  musician  and  Margaret  told  him  that 
music  was  the  one  thing  she  loved  above  all 
else,  he  felt  as  happy  as  though  he  had  discov 
ered  a  gold  mine  in  the  coal  scuttle.  So  fasci 
nated  was  he  that  during  the  ensuing  half-hour 
he  talked  a  good  deal  more  music  than  he  knew, 
and  at  last,  in  answer  to  a  question  she  asked,  he 
found  himself  manfully  seeking  to  formulate  a 
concise  history  of  the  United  States. 

In  short,  Perkins  did  much  that  day  that  a 
Solomon  would  have  feared  to  undertake.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  the  wind  died  down  and  the  rain 
ceased.  The  clouds  drifted  from  before  the  slowly 
sinking  sun,  and  his  crimson  flames  burned  in  the 
red  west. 

Together  they  went  into  the  yard.  It  had  be 
come  quite  warm  with  the  approach  of  the  even 
ing,  but  Margaret  was  folded  in  a  great  fur 
wrap.  "I  am  always  cold,"  she  had  said. 

For  a  time  they  had  strolled  about  the  grounds, 
which  were  very  extensive,  and  Ballard  had  taken 
her  into  the  conservatory  where  the  gardener — 
who  with  the  rest  fell  immediately  under  her  gentle 
sway — picked  for  her  a  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-val- 
ley.  Then  they  had  gone  into  the  house  again 


292        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

where  she  shared  her  bouquet  with  Ballard — giv 
ing  him  a  spray  of  white  for  his  buttonhole.  Much 
to  his  sorrow  Perkins  found  it  necessary  to  leave 
her  and  go  down-town.  With  his  departure  Mar 
garet  was  left  quite  to  herself.  The  repairing  of 
the  preceding  days'  havoc  demanding  Mrs.  Per 
kins'  supervision,  and  tempted  by  the  outer  bright 
ness,  she  summoned  Russell  and  wandered  into 
the  grounds  about  the  house  and  from  the  grounds 
into  the  street.  Both  found  much  to  wonder  at 
in  the  little  western  city.  It  was  so  different 
from  anything  they  had  either  of  them  ever  known. 
As  they  passed  down  the  street  they  came  to  a 
church — the  door  stood  open  and  there  came  from 
within  a  burst  of  melody.  Perhaps  some  service 
was  in  progress.  Margaret  turned,  and  followed 
by  Russell,  entered  the  building.  They  found  it 
empty  save  for  one  man  who  was  just  visible  as 
he  sat  with  bowed  head  before  the  organ,  his 
hands  upon  the  keys. 

Madame  Dennee  was  no  mean  judge  of  music. 
She  had  heard  the  greatest  masters  of  the  world 
and  she  knew  that  this  player,  whoever  he  might 
be,  was  not  one  of  the  least.  He  was  improvising 
and  from  his  own  fancies  drifted  into  Bach's  first 
prelude.  While  his  fingers  were  wandering 
through  the  opening  bars,  a  sound  stole  out  of 
the  vacancy  behind  him. 

The  player  turned  and  saw  her  standing  in  the 
aisle — the  little  gloved  hands  folded  in  uncon- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  293 

scious  devotion — the  head  thrown  back  with  its 
delicate  halo  of  golden  hair,  while  through  a 
stained  glass  window,  high  up  beneath  the  arched 
roof,  a  single  beam  of  light  came  to  touch  and 
transform  the  upturned  face  that  stood  forth  bold 
ly  outlined  against  the  surrounding  shadows  and 
the  darkness  that  was  gathering  swiftly. 

The  final  note  was  dying  away,  lingering  out 
its  sweetness  lovingly  upon  the  silence  and  the 
expression  of  rapt  intenseness  was  fading  from 
her  face,  when  for  the  first  time  her  eyes  met  his 
to  be  withdrawn  instantly.  A  moment  later  and 
Margaret  with  her  companion  stole  noiselessly 
from  the  church.  Within  the  organ  was  sounding 
again,  throbbing  like  a  great  heart  that  had  awak 
ened  from  its  sleep  to  life  and  love. 


Madame  Dennee  had  expressed  the  hope  of 
avoiding  all  social  obligations.  And  Perkins  had 
barely  ventured  to  ask  her  meekly  if  he  might 
not  invite  his  two  most  intimate  friends  to  the 
house — he  was  "morally  certain"  she  would  like 
them  immensely,  they  were  such  charming  fel 
lows.  So  in  due  season  he  had  presented  Franz 
and  Philip,  and  to  them  Margaret  was  most 
gracious. 

After  their  first  meeting  with  Madame  Dennee, 


294        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

the  young  men  had  walked  home  in  a  subdued 
frame  of  mind.  They  stopped  at  the  Beckers'  to 
smoke  a  farewell  pipe  and  while  under  the  stim 
ulating  influence  of  the  weed  Philip  proceeded  to 
analyze  his  emotions  and  indulge  in  critical  com 
ment. 

"Didn't  it  strike  you  that  Perkins  was  just  a  bit 
sappy  to-night?  How  his  tongue  did  rattle  along 
and  always  about  himself."  Philip  meditated  for 
a  moment.  "Perhaps  I  am  uncharitable.  I  think 
my  main  grudge  against  him  rests  on  this — I 
wanted  to  talk  about  myself." 

Franz  was  smoking  his  pipe.  There  was  a  far 
away  look  in  his  eyes  and  he  was  paying  little 
attention  to  what  his  companion  said. 

Philip  continued:  "How  did  you  like  Madame 
Dennee?  She  is  very  beautiful,  don't  you  think? 
A  woman  of  culture  and  great  spirituality." 
Franz  was  still  silent.  "There  is  something  about 
her  that  impressed  me  as  being  touchingly  sad 
and  pathetic — I  can't  describe  it,  but  it's  there.  I 
should  say  though  she  had  an  infinite  capacity 
for  happiness." 

Becker  removed  the  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "I 
have  seen  her  before,"  he  said  simply. 

"Oh!"     Philip   regarded  him   curiously. 

"It  was  at  church.  In  the  evening  while  I  was 
at  my  practise."  He  paused  abruptly. 

"I  am  afraid  Perkins  is  in  a  fair  way  to  make 
a  precious  ass  of  himself,"  Philip  observed.  "He 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  295 

is  at  the  beginning  of  a  bad  -business  and  ought 
to  saw  off.  Perkins  is  all  right,  you  know,  but 
even  his  own  mother  would  have  to  admit  that 
he  is  freckled  and  fat.  If  he  goes  to  falling  in 
love  with  his  cousin — " 

By  a  sharp  decisive  blow  Franz  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe:  "I  shall  have  to  say  good 
night,  Philip.  I  don't  propose  to  send  you  home 
but—" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  What's  wrong?  Have  I 
said  anything  I  shouldn't?" 

"Shall  I  go  down  or  will  you  be  able  to  find 
your  way  out  by  yourself?"  Franz  asked. 

He  held  open  the  door  and  Philip  passed  from 
the  room.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  turned  and 
called  back  his  good  night  Becker  answered  him 
cordially  enough.  When  he  found  himself  in  the 
street  Philip  came  to  a  stand. 

"I  declare  he  fairly  put  me  out.  As  I  live,"  he 
finally  cried,  "as  I  live  he  is  in  love  with  her 
himself." 

During  the  succeeding  weeks  they  both  saw 
much  of  Madame  Dennee. 

Usually  Philip  prided  himself  on  his  ability  to 
shock  people,  but  with  her  he  carefully  eschewed 
all  levity.  Nothing  could  have  induced  him  to 
advance  the  sacrilegious  theories  with  which  he 
delighted  to  offend.  Such  was  his  unblushing 
apostasy  that  Mrs.  Perkins,  who  had  long  viewed 
him  as  one  of  the  lost  sheep,  (chiefly  by  reason 


296        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

of  the  fact  that  for  some  years  her  son  had  at 
intervals  favored  her  with  scattered  gems  from 
his  friend's  remarks  as  well  as  with  his  scanda 
lously  unorthodox  criticisms  of  vital  questions) 
presented  him  with  a  volume  of  sermons. 

Philip  accepted  this  token  of  unexpectedly  kin 
dled  solicitude  with  a  stately  gravity  far  surpassing 
the  donor's,  while  Ballard  went  off  into  a  series 
of  convulsions  that  brought  with  them  unworthy 
prominence  and  attendant  disgrace.  Furthermore, 
he  was  detected  by  his  mother  in  the  shameless 
act  of  winking  at  Becker. 

Philip  derived  great  good  from  those  sermons. 
They  gave  him  a  convenient  supply  of  paper  for 
the  lighting  of  fires  in  his  room. 

Those  were  delightful  evenings  they  spent 
together  when  Philip  would  drop  in  on  his  way 
home  from  Barbara, — for  the  Perkinses  were  noth 
ing  if  not  fashionable  and  kept  later  hours  than 
any  other  family  in  the  town. 

The  young  men  would  form  a  half-circle  about 
Madame  Dennee,  where  she  nestled  in  an  easy 
chair  beside  the  fire  for  the  warmth  she  loved  and 
needed,  and  they  would  stand,  looking  down  at 
the  slight  black-robed  figure  and  sweet  pure  face, 
talking  the  while  very  boyishly  of  their  hopes  and 
their  aims.  Philip  and  Perkins  especially  had 
much  to  say  of  themselves.  Indeed,  there  existed 
at  first  a  very  pronounced  rivalry  as  to  who 
should  say  the  more. 


ALU  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  297 

They  told  her  their  desires,  their  ambitions — 
everything,  and  to  their  confessions  she  listened 
with  a  certain  quaint  little  display  of  friendliness 
and  affection  that  completely  captivated  them. 

There  was  this  peculiar  feature  noticeable  in 
the  devotion  she  inspired, — it  was  unselfish  always 
for  it  was  possible  to  love  her  in  a  manner  that 
exacted  nothing  in  return;  possible  to  lay  all  at 
her  feet,  and  ask  but  the  joy  of  giving. 

The  fall  and  early  winter  were  unusually  incle 
ment  and  a  troublesome  cough  kept  Margaret  con 
fined  within  doors.  Perhaps  resulting  from  this 
and  the  anxious  care  Russell  took  of  her,  they  di 
vined  that  she  was  not  strong.  It  was  solely  by 
indirection  they  came  to  know  that  the  frail  little 
body  had  worn  itself  out  to  the  verge  of  exhaus 
tion.  But  the  undisturbed  quietness  in  which  her 
days  were  spent  pleased  her  fancy  vastly  better 
than  any  gaiety  could  have  done.  The  latter 
she  had  known  to  the  point  of  surfeiting  while 
her  husband  lived  and  she  recalled  it  as  some 
thing  to  be  avoided. 

Thus  it  came  that  the  weeks  covering  her  stay 
in  the  small  western  city  were  the  happiest  she 
had  ever  known. 

She  enjoyed  her  companionship  with  Perkins 
and  Philip, — she  could  like  them  unreservedly  and 
in  return  be  treated  to  a  sincere  admiration  not 
without  its  gratification  to  the  starved  little  heart. 

She  stood  more  in  awe  of  Franz,  and  he  kept 


298        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

his  thoughts  of  her  a  secret.  She  could  not  guess 
that  they  lay  too  close  against  his  very  soul  for 
utterance;  but  there  was  a  remarkable  gentleness 
in  his  bearing  when  in  her  presence — a  reverent 
quality  far  removed  from  his  customary  brusk- 
ness. 

Cling  as  she  would  to  the  past,  Margaret  was 
slowly  growing  away  from  it.  She  was  almost 
happy.  In  course  of  time  she  might  have  been 
entirely  so,  but  for  the  existence  of  her  brother 
Geoff,  who  skulked  on  the  outskirts  of  decency — 
and  who  only  indicated  that  he  thought  of  her 
when  he  showered  her  with  begging  letters. 

In  all  the  mad  indulgence  of  his  worthless  ca 
reer  he  had  done  no  generous  deed.  He  had 
burdened  some  one  always,  taking  to  himself  the 
lion's  share  of  the  fruits  and  shirking  all  the  toil. 

It  was  to  pay  his  debts,  to  give  him  a  fresh 
start,  that  Margaret  had  been  coerced  by  her 
mother  into  marrying  Monsieur  Dennee.  That 
sin  occurred  at  a  day  when  Geoffrey  had  squan 
dered  the  last  of  his  patrimony  and  had  embar 
rassed  his  mother's  and  sister's  fortune  besides. 

Then  it  was  that  Margaret,  but  little  more  than 
a  child,  was  taken  from  the  school  near  Brussels 
and  brought  to  Paris  that  Geoff  might  play  her 
as  his  last  card  in  the  losing  game  of  chance  that 
was  swallowing  up  their  possessions. 

He  had  cast  about  that  he  might  effect  a  suit 
able  alliance  (to  him  a  suitable  alliance  meant 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  299 

one  that  should  not  be  scant  of  profit  to  himself) 
and  had  fastened  upon  Monsieur  Dennee,  who 
yielded  up  the  price  of  purchase  with  the  utmost 
readiness.  More  than  this,  while  he  lived,  Geoff' 
was  well  provided  for  and  if  he  had  not  been  a 
chronic  spendthrift  could  have  thrived  exceed 
ingly.  Unfortunately,  he  had  no  intention  to  be 
on  easy  terms  with  his  good  luck,  but  was  for 
ever  making  unreasonable  demands  upon  his  elder 
ly  brother-in-law  for  money,  and  for  yet  more 
money.  The  result  was  that  when  the  old  banker 
came  to  die  he  put  his  property  in  such  shape  that 
by  no  scheming  could  Geoff  get  his  hands  upon  it. 

Monsieur  Dennee's  methodical  bestowing  of  his 
worldly  belongings  did  not  stop  there.  He  ar 
ranged  that  an  annuity  should  be  paid  Geoffrey 
and  his  mother.  It  was  further  stipulated  that  in 
the  event  of  the  latter's  death  Geoff  should  also 
have  her  portion. 

Mrs.  Ballard  had  not  long  survived  her  son-in- 
law,  and  though  Geoff  had  availed  himself  of  the 
addition  to  his  means  her  death  gave  him,  the 
doubled  amount  was  as  insufficient  as  had  been 
his  previous  lesser  allowance. 

After  her  husband's  death  Margaret  was  left 
to  live  her  lonely  life  without  interference  from  her 
brother.  He  went  his  course  and  she  hers,  though 
it  was  his  habit  to  appear  from  time  to  time  a 
seedy,  shabby  beggar  and  take  from  her  every 
cent  she  could  get  together.  Then  he  would  van- 


300         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

ish,  no  one  knew  where,  until  he  again  needed 
money.  Nor  was  this  all.  He  had  married — much 
as  he  did  everything  else — to  gratify  some  vac 
illating  whim,  and  when  the  novelty  of  the  rela 
tion  wore  off  he  had  forsaken  his  family  with 
never  a  regret,  leaving  the  broken  home  for  his 
sister  to  maintain. 

For  years  Margaret  had  cared  for  his  wife  and 
children — "Kate  and  the  three  boys"  were  always 
in  difficulties,  more  or  less  pressing,  difficulties 
of  the  sort  only  money — blessed  balm  that  it  is — 
could  alleviate.  In  short,  there  were  more  drains, 
more  attacks  made  upon  the  wealth  of  Monsieur 
Dennee,  deceased,  than  one  could  enumerate  in  a 
long  talk.  These  just  referred  to  were  of  the  un 
ceasing,  never-ending  variety,  that  came  clamor 
ously  with  each  month,  came  again  until  they 
were  satisfied. 

But  of  all,  Geoffrey  Ballard  was  much  the 
worst.  He  was  seldom  stationary  or  confined  to 
any  place  by  tie  or  occupation.  He  came  and 
went  at  will;  there  was  never  any  getting  away 
from  him. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Russell,  Margaret  would 
have  been  utterly  defenseless,  but  the  maid  was 
a  strong  and  reliable  character,  who  strenuously 
resisted  the  wholesale  absorption  of  her  mistress' 
property.  When  madame's  bankers  remitted  her 
income,  Russell  would  take  into  her  keeping  the 
sum  she  deemed  adequate  for  their  proper  sup 
port,  and  no  one  could  take  this  from  her. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  301 

With  the  bulk  of  what  remained  Geoff  gener 
ally  made  off. 

One  evening  while  Margaret  was  alone  in  the 
library  at  early  dusk,  the  room  unlighted  by  other 
flame  than  the  glowing  of  coals  upon  the  hearth, 
there  came  a  tapping  at  a  long  French  window 
opening  upon  the  porch.  She  looked  up  quickly, 
startled  by  the  sound,  and  saw  a  man  standing 
in  the  half  shadow. 

One  glance  sufficed, — it  was  Geoff. 

Frightened  and  trembling,  she  arose  and  went 
to  the  window,  pushing  it  aside  that  he  might 
enter.  Without  a  word,  he  stepped  into  the 
room. 

"How  damnably  cold  it  is,"  he  grumbled. 
"Throw  another  lump  of  coal  on  the  fire,  will 
you?  What  a  beastly  climate — rough  on  a  man 
who  does  not  boast  an  overcoat.  Thanks."  For 
Margaret  mutely  complied  with  his  bidding. 

The  flames  leaped  up,  disclosing  a  man  of  near 
ly  forty,  shabbily  dressed  in  garments  once  of  the 
greatest  elegance,  but  which  from  hard  usage 
were  now  nearly  ragged. 

He  was  of  fine  physique  with  a  handsome  coun 
tenance  that,  like  his  clothes,  showed  unmistak 
able  symptoms  of  wear,  for  a  record  of  the  de 
grading  course  he  had  pursued  so  assiduously 
was  stamped  upon  it. 

He  glanced  around  the  room,  taking  in  its  ap 
pointments.  They  met  with  his  approval,  for 
he  said: 


302        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

"This  is  not  at  all  bad.  You  do  get  your  share 
of  the  good  gifts  of  this  world  while  I  spend  most 
of  my  time  standing  in  the  rain  waiting  to  gather 
up  the  crumbs  you  scatter.  Here  I  traveled  from 
New  Orleans  to  New  York,  thinking  of  course 
I  should  find  you  there.  Imagine  my  predica 
ment.  All  I  had  went  to  the  pawn-shops,  and  I 
just  managed  to  scrape  through." 

This  was  said  with  an  aggrieved  air  as  though 
the  fault  was  hers.  "Now,  what  can  you  do  for 
me?"  he  continued;  "I  want  money.  I  think  my 
dress  bears  out  the  statement — "  And  he  took  a 
disgusted  survey  of  himself  in  a  small  mirror 
hanging  above  the  chimneypiece. 

On  her  death-bed,  at  the  close  of  a  very  foolish 
life,  Mrs.  Ballard  had  wrung  from  her  daughter 
the  promise  that  she  would  never  abandon  her 
brother,  and  Margaret,  who  was  the  victim  of 
sentimentality  where  her  mother's  last  wish  was 
concerned,  had  carried  it  out  blindly  without 
stopping  to  consider  its  injustice.  The  profligate 
brother  now  spread  out  his  hands  behind  his  back 
to  catch  the  heat  from  the  fire,  and  ensconced  him 
self  contentedly  on  the  hearth-rug. 

As  his  sister  had  vouchsafed  him  no  response 
he  returned  to  the  charge.  "I  don't  wish  to  force 
my  needs  upon  you,"  he  said.  "You  must  know 
it's  hard  for  a  man  of  my  age  to  get  down  on 
his  knees  for  the  money  to  keep  himself  going." 

Margaret  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  stared  at 
him,  silent  and  miserable  for  a  moment. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  303 

"Well?"  Geoff  asked  impatiently,  "what  are 
you  going  to  do  for  me — what  may  I  count  on?" 

"When  I  saw  you  in  New  York,  I  told  you  dis 
tinctly  what  you  were  to  expect,  Geoff." 

Her  tone  while  not  unkind  was  positive.  Gentle 
as  she  was  and  tender  in  all  her  dealings  and  judg 
ments,  a  show  of  firmness  had  to  be  maintained 
in  her  relationship  with  this  spendthrift,  and  too, 
she  felt  as  bitter  a  sense  of  injury  as  her  forgiv 
ing  nature  could  harbor  for  the  wreck  he  had 
made  of  her  girlhood.  She  added  almost  hesitat 
ingly  : 

"I — I  am  so  sorry  you  have  followed  me  here." 

To  him  this  seemed  to  denote  such  outrageous 
treachery  that  he  was  really  hurt — and  showed  it. 
She  went  to  his  side,  and  placing  an  arm  caress 
ingly  about  his  neck,  said,  "Forgive  me,  Geoff.  I 
did  not  mean  quite  that,  but  I  have  been  so  happy 
here.  If  you  could  only  be  as  I  am  then  you 
would  like  it  too,  but  you  know  you  are  so  rest 
less.  That  is  what  I  meant." 

He  shook  off  her  arm  rudely.  "I  understand, 
this  sort  of  thing  is  useless — I'm  not  deceived." 

She  looked  at  him  pityingly.  How  mistaken 
he  was  in  every  impulse  and  ideal. 

"I  have  not  tried  to  deceive  you,  Geoff.  Why 
should  I  attempt  to?  But  it  is  so  sad  that  we 
should  waste  our  lives,  when  there  are  such 
possibilities  within  us  if  we  would  only  consent 
to  make  the  most  of  them.  We  have  both  lived 
so  untrue  to  what  is  best." 


304        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

This  elicited  only  a  contemptuous  shrug  from 
Geoff. 

Margaret  clasped  her  hands,  while  a  spot  of  red 
burned  in  each  cheek.  "Why  can't  we  go  back? 
— back  into  the  past  so  far  we  shall  forget  the 
wretched  years  we  have  wasted  so  wickedly?" 

Geoff  was  excessively  bored. 

"I  presume  you  are  referring  to  your  marriage." 
He  retorted  angrily:  "The  utter  thanklessness 
in  which  you  hold  that  piece  of  luck  amazes  me. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  the  devil  would  be 
come  of  us  if  it  wasn't  for  Dennee's  money.  Of 
course  the  old  fool  tied  it  up  with  such  nasty 
restrictions  one  can  just  get  at  the  income,  but 
I  am  pleased  to  be  able  to  assert  that  I  am  not 
ungrateful.  I  regard  your  marriage  as  the  very 
best  thing  that  could  have  fallen  to  your  lot, 
and  I  consider  that  I  did  what  was  honorable. 
Therefore — your  evident  dissatisfaction  rather 
astonishes  me.  Under  the  circumstances,  I 
scarcely  anticipated  it." 

He  settled  himself  in  a  chair,  stretching  out  his 
feet  toward  the  fender.  His  handsome  head,  fine 
as  to  shape  and  size,  was  thrown  back  and  the 
firelight  fell  upon  the  beautiful  evil  face.  About 
the  eyes  were  heavy  circles.  These  were  the 
visible  traces  dissipation  had  left.  A  few  gray 
hairs  showed  among  the  profusion  of  dark  curls. 

"I  don't  intend  to  reproach  you,"  Margaret  said. 

"I  should  think  not,  when  you  reflect  what  I 
Have  done  for  you,"  he  answered  coldly. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN   HATH  305 

"But  at  what  a  cost — at  what  a  dreadful  cost!" 
she  cried  quickly,  and  her  voice  vibrated  with  the 
intensity  of  her  grief. 

Geoff  was  deeply  resentful,  but  offered  no  fur 
ther  interruption.  She  would  be  more  pliable  with 
such  treatment.  He  centered  his  rather  sleepy 
vision  earnestly  upon  the  carpet  and  endeavored 
to  gain  relief  in  partial  abstraction. 

Margaret  crouched  on  the  floor  beside  his  chair, 
watching  the  warm  glow  turn  to  ashes  as  in  her 
own  heart  the  gold  had  turned  to  gray.  There  was 
nothing  left. 

"I  don't  mean  to  reproach  you,  Geoff,"  she  said 
at  last.  "I  have  never  even  told  you  how  hard 
and  unbearable  it  has  been  for  me — the  horror  or 
the  haunting  sense  of  sin  and  shame.  Perhaps 
you  did  mean  it  for  the  best.  I  hope  you  did  for 
your  own  sake,  not  for  mine ;  I  hope  you  did ! — 
but  I  have  suffered  so. 

"There  has  been  such  a  stain  upon  my  soul 
since  the  days  of  my  loveless  marriage,  it  would 
not  wear  away,  it  has  only  grown  less  since  I 
came  here.  I  wish  to  forget — I  wish  to  begin 
again  and  there  is  no  one  who  should  be  so  near 
as  you,  no  one  to  whom  I  can  so  justly  look 
for  protection.  Shall  we  not  begin  again,  Geoff? 
I  am  so  sure  we  may  be  happy  if  we  only  will, 
and  the  life  you  lead,  dear,  is  such  an  awful  mis 
take — it  can  bring  you  nothing  but  pain,  and  to 
have  you  come  to  me  worn  and  jaded,  drags  me 


306         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

down  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  am  constantly  fear 
ing  that  serious  trouble  may  overtake  you,  I  live 
in  continual  apprehension  about  you.  Is  it  right 
that  I,  who  have  so  much  to  make  amends  for, 
should  support  this  load,  too?  Can  I  not  grow 
back  into  some  measure  of  innocence,  without 
having  sin  and  evil  brought  forever  to  me — 
Geoff— Geoff!" 

She  looked  up  appealingly. 

His  eyes  were  closed  and  his  breathing  pro 
claimed  him  to  be  half  asleep. 

With  a  sudden  uncontrollable  feeling  of  repul 
sion  she  shrank  away  from  his  side ;  then  she  stood 
erect. 

Her  movement  aroused  him.  With  a  yawn  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  glanced  about  stupidly  as 
though  he  could  not  quite  remember  where  he 
was. 

"Really,  I  beg  your  pardon/'  he  said  with  lazy 
politeness.  "But  the  heat  made  me  drowsy.  Pos 
itively  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  open." 

He  thought  it  about  time  to  bring  matters 
to  a  crisis.  He  drew  himself  together  and  made 
ready  to  terminate  the  interview. 

"How  much  can  you  let  me  have?  I  am  aware 
that  your  bankers  won't  remit  for  a  while  yet,  but 
can't  you  do  something  for  me  temporarily?  As 
you  see,  I  am  abominably  shabby  and  it's  no  way 
for  a  gentleman  to  appear." 

"How  much  do  you  need?"  Margaret  asked. 

Geoff   promptly   dropped    the   whine    in   which 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  307 

he  had  previously  spoken,  becoming  suddenly  and 
wonderfully  buoyant. 

"Oh!  a  few  hundreds.  I'll  spend  them  well, 
and  I'll  agree  not  to  bother  you  again  until 
your  money  gets  here.  Til  hang  about  quietly 
until  it  comes,  then  you  can  fix  me  up  and  I  will 
bolt  the  place.  Now  I  call  that  fair — and  you 
would  better" — he  grew  strangely  sinister — "you 
would  better  do  as  I  ask  or  you  may  get  let  in 
for  more  than  the  mere  loss  of  cash." 

"I  will  go  to  Russell  and  learn  what  can  be 
spared." 

"The  old  cat !" 

Margaret  left  the  room.  In  the  hall  she  en 
countered  Perkins. 

"I  was  coming  to  find  you,"  he  said.  "It's 
nearly  dinner-time  and  dark  as  the  deuce.  I  say," 
in  surprise,  "is  anything  the  matter?" 

For  Madame  Dennee's  face  was  more  than  un 
usually  pale — more  than  unusually  sad. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Ballard?" 

"Into  the  library.  That  is  I  was  going  there, 
but  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  just  go  along  with  you." 

"Instead  will  you  do  me  a  service?" 

Perkins   instantly   made  a  gesture   of  assent. 

"Whatever  you  ask,"  he  said  eagerly. 

"It's  very  little.  Please  don't  be  curious,  and 
don't  allow  your  mother  or  the  servants  to  enter 
the  library  while  I  am  up-stairs."  Perkins  seemed 
mystified  and  she  added :  "Some  one  is  there,  some 
one  I  would  rather  not  have  you  see." 


308         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

At  this  his  face  cleared.  He  made  haste  to 
say,  "I  shall  do  exactly  as  you  ask.  Nobody  shall 
enter  the  library  until  you  are  willing  that  they 
should." 

"Thank  you  so  very  much/'  And  she  vanished 
up  the  stairs. 

Perkins  glared  fixedly  at  the  library  door,  his 
freckled  features  assuming  a  belligerent  expres 
sion. 

Margaret  returned  immediately  and  came  down 
the  stairs  quite  breathless. 

"Shall  I  stay  here  and  keep  the  rest  away  until 
he  goes,  you  know?"  he  asked. 

She  gave  him  a  thankful  glance,  and  he  added: 

"There,  don't  you  worry.  No  one  shall  disturb 
you." 

He  held  open  the  door  as  he  spoke  and  shut  it 
carefully  after  her,  so  that  no  portion  of  a  con 
versation  clearly  not  for  him  should  find  its  way 
to  his  ears. 

Ten  minutes  later  when  Geoff  had  taken  his 
leave  Margaret  found  Perkins  still  at  his  post,  pac 
ing  the  hall  with  dignified  step.  Something  akin 
to  intuition  informed  him  it  would  be  well  not 
to  allude  to  recent  happenings,  so  he  remarked: 

"I  think  dinner  is  waiting  for  us.  Suppose  we 
go  see." 

It  was  after  dinner  when  Margaret  was  alone 
with  Perkins  and  his  mother  that  she  crept  close 
to  the  latter  saying:  "I  think  I  shall  have  to  go 
away." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  309 

Mrs.  Perkins  let  fall  her  sewing  and  gazed  at 
Margaret  in  blank  astonishment. 

"My  dear,  you  surely  don't  mean  it!"  she  cried 
at  last. 

Whatever  traits  Mrs.  Perkins  had  inherited  from 
her  military  ancestors,  to  Margaret  she  had  been 
womanly  and  loving,  and  the  friendless  little  wan 
derer  had  received  from  her  more  motherly  care 
than  she  had  ever  before  known. 

"I  think,"  she  began  again  timidly,  and  her  voice 
was  perilously  near  to  the  point  of  breaking,  "I 
think  it  is  much  better  for  me  to  go  at  once." 

"But  do  you  wish  to  go — that  is — must  you?" 
Mrs.  Perkins  insisted:  "Dear!  dear!  I  had  never 
even  thought  of  your  leaving  us,  and  yet  it  is 
scarcely  probable  you  will  be  content  to  remain 
here  always." 

"I  fear  it  is  better  for  me  to  leave  you,  but  I 
ido  not  wish  to  go — it's  not  that — believe  me  it's 
not!" 

"Then,  my  dear,  Ballard  and  I  will  never  hear 
to  it." 

It  was  then  Margaret  broke  down  entirely,  and 
not  knowing  what  else  to  do  sought  refuge  in 
Mrs.  Perkins'  arms  and  from  that  safe  vantage 
told  of  her  brother. 

"And  he  is  coming  back.  I — I  had  hoped  he 
would  not,  unkind  and  ungenerous  as  it  may 
seem!" 

"Very  well.  He  shall  come  here,"  Mrs.  Per 
kins  said. 


310        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Oh,  no!  oh,  no!  you  must  know — I  must  tell 
you  that  his  actions  may  be  hard  to  explain. 
They  are  often  reckless  in  the  extreme.  I  can 
not  make  my  burden  yours.  You  would  grow 
to  hate  me  if  I  did." 

"Indeed  we  shan't,"  Perkins  burst  out.  "I'll 
look  after  him  when  he  comes.  I  can  handle  him. 
You  have  no  idea  how  clever  I  am.  You  just 
turn  him  over  to  me — I'll  manage  him."  And  he 
shook  his  head  knowingly,  while  under  his  breath 
he  whispered:  "If  he  cuts  up  and  annoys  her  I'll 
punch  his  damned  nose !" — which  was  very  vio 
lent  language  for  him. 

"I  so  regret — "  Margaret  began  again,  but  Mrs. 
Perkins  would  hear  no  more. 

"There,  my  dear,  we  understand  perfectly,  so 
don't  distress  yourself  at  all  about  it.  You  are 
going  to  remain  here,  whatever  happens." 

"Of  course  you  are!"  Perkins  chimed  in.  "We 
want  you  to  feel  that  this  is  your  home  and  that 
you  are  to  stay  here  as  long  as  ever  you  wish  to. 
The  idea ! — the  very  idea — " 

"You  are  so  good,"  Madame  Dennee  murmured 
gratefully.  "So  kind!  It  is  beautiful  to  be  so 
loved." 

"It  is  more  beautiful  to  have  you  with  us,  you 
know,"  Perkins  remarked,  "and  to  be  permitted 
to  love  you." 

"If  I  remain  you  must  grant  me  one  favor  in 
advance."  And  she  looked  at  Perkins,  seeing  in 
him  a  victim  for  the  wily  Geoff. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  311 

"A  million  if  you  like,"  he  answered  rashly. 

"You  are  not  to  lend  my  brother  money.  You 
must  promise  me  this." 

"I  shall  be  guided  wholly  by  you,"  Perkins 
assured  her. 

This  ended  all  mention  of  Geoff,  but  late  in  the 
night  when  they  had  all  retired,  Mrs.  Perkins  was 
aroused  by  Russell  rapping  on  her  door  and  en 
treating  her  to  come  at  once  to  Madame  Dennee ; 
who  was  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Perkins  found  the  poor  persecuted  one 
crouching  down  in  her  bed  frightened  and  shiver 
ing,  though  her  head  burned  as  with  a  fever. 

She  had  had  a  dreadful  dream,  and  she  could 
not  free  herself  from  the  nameless  fear. 

While  his  mother  was  soothing  Margaret, 
young  Perkins  in  a  disordered  state  as  to  cos 
tume,  but  even  more  so  as  to  mind,  skirmished 
about  the  hall  demanding  half-minute  bulletins 
through  the  keyhole.  He  was  eventually  induced 
to  withdraw  when  it  was  announced  that  his 
cousin  was  resting  easily,  and  reluctantly  sought 
his  room,  while  his  mother  and  Russell,  sitting 
by  Margaret's  bedside,  discussed  the  situation  in 
muffled  tones. 

"It  is  nervousness,"  the  maid  said.  "When  you 
know  her  brother  you  will  not  wonder  in  the  least 
why  seeing  him  should  so  work  upon  madame." 
And  needing  sympathy  herself  she  proceeded  to 
give  Geoff  a  character  that  made  Mrs.  Perkins 
shudder. 


312         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Russell  was  as  sure  as  her  mistress  had  been 
that  he  would  come  back,  arguing  that  the  remit 
tance  from  Paris  would  prevent  his  removing  him 
self  to  any  distance  until  he  had  his  grasp,  "his 
greedy  and  rapacious  grasp,"  as  she  termed  it  melo 
dramatically,  on  the  money.  She  also,  warming 
up  to  her  theme,  repeated  every  disreputable  anec 
dote,  every  questionable  transaction  with  which 
his  name  had  ever  been  associated.  These,  if 
properly  compiled  and  edited,  would  have  filled  a 
large  book  and  the  contents  would  have  been  ex 
tremely  spicy. 

So  startling  was  the  narrative  that  Mrs.  Perkins 
reproached  herself  because  of  the  fatal  prompti 
tude  with  which  she  had  undertaken  his  lodg 
ment. 

At  such  times,  however,  she  had  but  to  look  at 
the  slight  figure  tossing  restlessly  upon  the  bed 
to  feel  that  for  Margaret's  sake  she  would  gladly 
assume  any  risk. 


VI 


Philip  had  the  street  to  himself  as  he  walked 
up-town  from  the  Perkins',  where  he  had  been 
spending  the  evening,  but  as  he  came  to  his  own 
gate,  he  saw  a  man  lounging  beside  it. 

It  was  Lester  Royal. 

Since  the  night  when  they  had  met  for  the  first 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  313 

time  in  months,  Philip  had  not  seen  him,  and  he 
had  ceased  to  command  any  portion  of  his 
thoughts  in  the  pressure  of  work  and  newer  inter 
ests,  but  the  sight  of  the  boy  leaning  dejectedly 
against  the  fence  revived  the  memory  of  their 
former  interview. 

"Why,  Lester,  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  said  with  a 
marked  display  of  cordiality  for  he  was  not  averse 
to  a  little  human  intercourse  at  that  particular 
moment.  "Beastly  cold,  isn't  it?"  he  added. 

"I  am  frozen,"  Lester  said,  and  he  shivered. 
"I  have  been  waiting  to  see  you  for  an  hour  or 
more.  Take  me  indoors,  will  you,  where  it's 
warm?" 

Philip  took  his  hand.  It  was  like  ice.  "I  should 
say  you  are  frozen.  Come  along  with  me!" 

They  turned  into  the  yard  and  Philip  with  his 
night-key  unlocked  the  house  door  and  led  the 
way  up  to  his  room  where  a  bright  fire  burned 
in  the  grate — his  one  luxury.  He  pushed  Lester 
down  into  a  chair  before  it  and  said: 

"Now  What's  up?" 

He  saw  that  his  visitor  was  pale  and  worn, 
with  dark  haggard  lines  about  his  eyes,  and  the 
hands  he  held  out  toward  the  blaze  were  thin  and 
tremulous. 

"Have  you  been  ill?"  he  questioned. 

The  younger  boy  shook  his  head. 

"What's  wrong  then?" 

For   answer   Lester   cried   hoarsely    in   a   voice 


314        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

choked  with  emotion  and  grief,  "I  am  done  for, 
Philip — done  for!  I  am  dying  by  inches — I! — and 
a  year  ago  I  thought  I  should  live  forever." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  sobbing  like 
a  child. 

The  spectacle  of  a  man  in  tears  was  not  at  all 
soothing  to  Philip.  Perhaps  there  might  have  been 
times  when  he  would  have  done  the  same  thing, 
but  that  was  no  excuse  for  Lester. 

He  had  done  and  probably  would  continue  to 
do  a  great  many  things  that  he  could  not  pardon 
in  another. 

"Come !  come !  this  won't  do.  Be  a  man,"  he 
said  coldly. 

He  was  really  very  sorry  for  the  boy,  but  Les 
ter  had  no  earthly  right  to  make  such  a  violent 
assault  upon  his  feelings;  besides  he  had  a  lurk 
ing  suspicion  that  he  was  harrowing  up  his  sen 
sibilities  with  the  sole  object  of  asking  for  a 
loan.  Whatever  his  object,  Lester  paid  no  heed 
to  him,  and  Philip,  after  taking  a  turn  about  the 
room,  halted  at  his  side. 

"I  say  what's  the  matter,  anyhow?" 

"You  think  I  am  a  baby  as  well  as  a  fool !" 
came  in  stifled  accents  from  the  sufferer. 

"Oh,  no!"  Philip  remarked  politely,  "only  it's 
rather  unconventional,  you  know.  Just  a  bit  sur 
prising — not  to  say  startling.  I  am  hardly  pre 
pared  for  it.  If  you  could  manage  to  slow  up  a 
little  I  should  be  very  grateful." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  315 

Lester  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  into  his 
friend's  face. 

The  suffering  that  Philip  saw  in  the  face  be 
fore  him  caused  him  to  push  a  chair  close  to  the 
boy's  and  seat  himself.  Then  with  one  hand  half 
clasping  Lester's,  half  resting  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  he  said  kindly:  "Tell  me,  old  fellow,  what 
it  is?" 

"I  can't!  I  can't!  You  will  know  some  day. 
You  will  find  out  for  yourself  when — "  He  broke 
off  abruptly,  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"Very  well,  don't  say  more  than  you  wish," 
Philip  answered.  It  was  too  serious  for  any  dis 
play  of  curiosity  on  his  part  he  felt.  He  gazed 
pityingly  at  Lester  who  looked  pale  and  wan. 
Thus  for  a  time  they  sat,  neither  speaking.  At 
last  Lester  said: 

"I've  got  to  talk  with  some  one — my  brain 
swims  with  it — for  the  one  idea  whirls  and  whirls 
till  I  am  dizzy  and  blind.  I  am  wretched,  Philip, 
wretched;  and  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I've 
brought  it  all  on  myself.  Do  you  think  it  very 
hard  to  die?" 

"Easy,  but  not  agreeable.  Why  do  you  ask 
such  infernally  gruesome  questions?" 

"I've  got  to  die." 

"I  can't  see  where  you  are  an  exception  to  the 
rule.  It's  expected  of  everybody — the  nasty  act 
of  termination.  What  a  vulgar  thing  death  is !" 

Lester  stood   erect — the  firelight  flashing  over 


316        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

his  worn  countenance.  "It's  different  with  me. 
I've  got  to  die  now — now!"  With  a  groan  of 
anguish  he  flung  himself  back  into  the  chair 
while  Philip  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"See  here.  What  morbid  fancy  has  hold  of 
you?"  he  asked.  "I  must  admit  I  don't  like  this 
sort  of  talk." 

But  Lester's  face  was  buried  in  his  hands,  only 
his  dry  hard  gaspings  were  audible.  He  gained 
a  degree  of  control  over  himself  and  again  faced 
his  companion,  saying:  "Don't  you  know  what  I 
mean?" 

"No,  I  don't,  and  that's  a  fact." 

Lester  was  silent.  Some  sentiment  of  reserve 
stood  between  him  and  the  confession  he  was 
seeking  to  make. 

"Have  you  been  drinking  lately?"  Philip  ques 
tioned  gravely. 

"Yes — but  not   to-day." 

"You  shouldn't  do  it.  It's  anything  but  good 
for  you." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  fool  enough  not  to  know 
that?"  Lester  replied  with  almost  savage  earnest 
ness. 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  sense  don't  you 
keep  straight?" 

"I  resolve  to,  and  then  go  and  get  drunk  against 
my  will.  You  don't  know  what  it's  like." 

Philip  regarded  him  sadly.  There  was  a  heavy 
melancholy  in  the  boy's  whole  attitude  that  dis- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  317 

tressed  him — a  spirit  as  of  dumb  submission  to 
the  inevitable.  It  was  only  lifted  when  he  in 
dulged  in  his  wild  bursts  of  grief. 

"What's  the  good!"  Lester  continued.  "I  can 
keep  up  for  a  day  or  two,  but  I  go  back  to  it 
every  time." 

Philip  shrugged  his  shoulders,  saying  with  a 
poor  attempt  at  lightness:  "I  suppose  one  should 
not  resist  the  flesh.  Our  most  virtuous  moments 
are  those  which  come  when  we  have  tired  the 
devil  out  within  us  and  are  basking  in  the  splendor 
of  the  good  resolutions  that  tread  upon  the  heels 
of  satiety."  He  would  have  given  anything  to 
recall  the  words  once  they  were  spoken,  for  Lester 
shrank  from  him. 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  talk  to  me  so — not 
now,"  he  said. 

There  was  the  dull  glint  of  anger  in  his  lack-lus 
ter  eyes,  but  it  faded  away  almost  immediately. 
Once  more  he  became  stupidly  quiet. 

"Forgive  me,"  Philip  ventured  penitently.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  wound  you." 

"It's  all  right,"  Lester  said  indifferently.  "It's 
all  right.  I  presume  you  are  thoroughly  sick  of 


me." 


"No,  I  am  not.  I'd  like  to  help  you  if  I  knew 
how,  but  you  don't  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is. 
It's  blind  guessing  with  me.  I  don't  know  how 
to  give  you  a  lift." 

"It's  too  late,  I  tell  you.    I'm  done  for." 


318        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Do  you  mind  explaining  just  what  you  mean?" 

"I've  squandered  what  should  have  lasted  me  a 
lifetime.  I  am  a  bankrupt  in  brain,  body  and 
purse.  My  God!" — with  a  gesture  eloquent  of 
despair  and  misery — "I've  ruined  myself!  There 
is  nothing  left  for  me  but  death." 

And  Philip,  understanding  something  of  the 
other's  need,  said:  "It's  not  so  bad  as  that.  You 
can  pull  yourself  around,  but  if  it's  as  you  declare 
it  to  be,  you  can't  be  too  quick  about  it." 

"The  doctors  say  not.  It's  all  up  with  me 
according  to  them." 

"Damn  the  doctors!     What  do  they  know?" 

"They  say  it's  too  late." 

"Siuff.     They  lie!     It's  never  too  late." 

"There,  Philip,  don't— don't  let's  discuss  it.  I 
am  not  afraid,  but  it's  terrible.  I  have  thought 
I  had  years  and  years  before  me,  and  they  were 
all  wasted  in  a  day." 

To  his  horror  Philip  saw  that  his  friend  was  in 
a  measure  reconciled  to  death.  This  to  a  pagan 
like  Philip,  was  incomprehensible. 

Now  that  he  had  talked  more  freely,  Lester 
was  calmer  and  his  dejection  was  not  so  pro 
nounced  as  at  first.  Silence  had  fallen  on  them 
and  they  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  each  busy  with 
his  own  thoughts. 

"Let's  talk  about  when  we  were  boys,"  Lester 
finally  said.  "You  do  the  talking  just  as  you  did 
when  I  saw  you  last.  Do  you  know  if  I  can't 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  319 

sleep  nights — and  I  can't  most  of  the  time — I 
like  to  think  about  it:  the  past  that  stops  where 
my  folly  began.  In  all  the  years  since  I  came  of 
age,  there  is  nothing  I  want  to  remember — it's 
all  agony  to  me.  Talk  about  when  we  were 
boys,  Philip — about  what  we  did  in  vacation.  You 
were  always  such  a  good  old  chap!" 

He  put  his  hand  on  Philip's  arm  and  let  it  rest 
there  affectionately  while  Philip  in  a  low  voice 
began  to  speak  of  the  past, — and  at  the  telling 
much  that  was  hard  in  his  own  nature  grew  soft. 
A  strange  gentleness  came  into  the  hearts  of  both, 
as  Philip  talked  of  their  boyhood.  When  the 
winding  country  roads  knew  the  marks  of  their 
bare  feet  in  the  dust;  when,  stripped  of  clothing 
and  shame,  they  lay  lazily  upon  the  hot  sand  by 
the  river's  brim,  and  afterward  took  the  long 
walk  for  home  through  the  scented  dusk.  Back 
to  the  days  when  they  were  dirty  and  happy — 
when  respectability  knew  them  not  at  all — Philip 
carried  them.  And  Lester  saw  in  the  fire,  the  red 
of  the  sunshine;  in  the  smoke,  the  darkness  of 
night, — the  warm  summer  nights  that  were  filled 
with  peace  and  sleep. 

Surely,  it  was  better  then — and  as  he  listened 
his  head  fell  over  on  his  shoulder,  his  eyes  closed, 
while  still  as  in  a  dream  he  heard  the  murmur  of 
Philip's  voice,  saw  the  pictures  he  drew,  and  then 
he  slept. 

Philip  moved  noiselessly  to  the  table  where  the 


320        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

lamp  burned.  This  he  blew  out  so  that  only  the 
firelight  filled  the  room,  the  firelight  and  the 
colder  brightness  the  moon  sent  stealing  in 
through  the  windows. 

As  the  hours  wore  on,  he  kept  his  watch  at  the 
sleeper's  side,  thinking  and  wondering  what  it  all 
meant  and  what  the  end  would  be. 

It  was  almost  day  when  Lester  woke. 

"Better,    Lester?''    he    asked. 

"Yes.  I  wish  I  were  back  to  it.  I  wish  I  were 
a  boy  again.  I  am  sick  of  the  present,  and  the 
future  has  nothing  for  me.  You  know  I  can't 
keep  from  the  very  things  that  are  killing  me. 
I  try  and  try  and  then  I  fail." 

"You  must  keep  from  them  if  you  are  ever  to 
be  all  you  were,  all  you  promised  to  be." 

Lester  shook  his  head. 

"It  will  never  be,  Philip.  It  is  too  late — I  am 
done  for." 

"That's  absurd,  Lester.  There!  I  can  tolerate 
any  one  except  the  man  who  differs  from  me  in 
his  opinions.  For  him  I  have  the  heartiest  con 
tempt." 

"It's  not  all  cowardice  with  me,"  Lester  said 
miserably.  "Now  that  the  time  has  gone  forever, 
I  want  what  I  have  never  had.  I  am  desperately 
sick  of  myself." 

He  looked  at  Philip  wistfully,  and  the  remem 
brance  was  torture  to  Philip  long  afterward.  "Did 
you  ever  want  to  be  good?  Can  you  imagine 
what  this  desire  is  in  a  fellow  like  me?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  321 

"Why  do  you  stir  me  up  on  these  lines  of 
sloppy  sentiment?"  Philip  retorted.  "No,  I  never 
want  to  be  good.  My  digestion  is  perfect.  Piety 
does  very  well  for  children  and  invalids." 

Lester  made  no  response  to  this  and  his  friend 
added  in  an  injured  but  more  temperate  tone: 
"You  talk  like  a  man  on  his  death-bed.  I  can 
only  give  you  temporal  consolation.  I  can  only 
tell  you  what  seems  to  me  the  wisest  course  to 
pursue." 

"Perhaps  I  am  nearer  that  than  you  think  for — 
nearer  my  death-bed,"  the  boy  answered,  helplessly, 
drearily. 

"Stuff!"  Philip  cried  hotly. 

Lester  seemed  to  take  small  comfort  from  his 
words,  but  Philip  made  a  last  attempt  to  cheer 
him  up.  "As  to  the  doctors,"  he  said,  "you  can't 
depend  on  them;  and  that  about  your  dying  is  rank 
nonsense.  If  folly  and  sin  were  so  fatal,  our  race 
would  have  become  extinct  long  ago.  You  may 
be  in  a  very  bad  way — I  don't  say  you  are  not, 
but  anything  is  possible  in  this  world.  You  are 
more  apt  to  get  well  than  to  die.  You  made  a 
mistake,  though,  when  you  consulted  a  doctor. 
As  long  as  a  man  can  remain  in  ignorance  of 
those  operations  that  are  going  on  inside  of  him, 
he  is  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  very  considerable 
blessing." 

Lester  turned  away. 

"Well,  I  shall  go  home  now  if  you  will  let  me 
out,"  he  said  drearily. 


322        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  clear  of  those  indul 
gences  that  are,  as  you  think,  killing  you?" 

"If  I  can  I  shall."" 

"If  you  can — you  must !"  Lester's  glance 
checked  him : — "I'll  walk  home  with  you,"  he  said 
gently,  and  as  he  saw  Lester  was  going  to  pro 
test,  he  made  haste  to  add: 

"It's  no  odds  to  me  that  it's  late." 

And  together  they  left  the  house. 

A  week  later  it  occurred  to  Philip  that  Lester 
had  not  lived  up  to  the  assurance  he  had  given 
him  at  parting,  that  he  would  come  around  soon 
and  report  upon  his  troubles. 

"Now  I  suppose  I  should  go  look  him  up,"  he 
thought,  "and  find  out  why  he  has  dodged  the 
agreement  in  this  fashion.  It's  just  my  misfor 
tune  to  be  of  an  abominably  conscientious  temper 
ament  which  causes  me  to  feel  morally  responsi 
ble  for  his  well-being.  I  really  am  conscientious, 
— even  stupidity  can  not  be  urged  in  extenuation. 
In  the  present  instance  I  know  perfectly  well 
what  I  should  do :  I  should  dismiss  Lester  from 
my  mind.  But  I  am  too  much  of  a  conscientious 
ass." 

In  support  of  the  truth  of  this  Philip  started 
at  once  in  search  of  Lester. 

First  he  visited  his  home,  and  found  that  he 
had  not  been  there  in  several  days,  but  it  occa 
sioned  no  alarm,  as  the  boy's  habits  were  decid- 
.edly  those  of  a  vagabond. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  323 

This  was  in  the  morning.  At  noon  Philip  was 
in  such  a  state  of  preoccupation  that  he  got 
through  his  dinner  without  an  exchange  of  hos 
tilities  with  either  of  his  sisters. 

In  his  search  that  morning  he  had  encountered 
no  one  who  seemed  to  remember  having  seen 
Lester  recently. 

He  could  not  free  himself  from  the  belief  that 
his  disappearance  was  a  serious  matter.  The  rec 
ollection  of  their  last  meeting  oppressed  him  with 
an  unpleasant  distinctness  all  at  once.  He  roused 
himself  from  his  abstraction  to  say  to  his  mother: 
"Do  you  know,  I  am  worried  about  poor  Lester 
Royal." 

Katherine  sniffed  aloud  at  this:  "Lester  Royal, 
indeed!" 

"I've  been  looking  for  him  all  the  morning  and 
I  can't  get  track  of  him,"  he  continued. 

"Perhaps  he  is  too  drunk  to  be  seen.  It  would 
be  no  new  thing  if  he  were,"  said  Katherine. 

Philip  was  using  such  a  character  as  his  sister 
in  some  work  he  was  doing,  and  he  was  in 
terested  in  examining  her  capacity  for  abusive 
speech  when  spurred  by  anger.  Here  was  an 
opportunity:  "Well,  if  he  wants  to  get  drunk 
it's  his  privilege." 

"He  should  be  locked  up  instead  of  being  al 
lowed  to  disgrace  himself  and  everybody  else." 

"Oh,  no,  Kate — you  would  be  too  severe.  What 
you  foolishly  take  to  be  a  religious  conviction  is 


324        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

simply  a  woman's  prejudice  at  seeing  a  man  en 
joy  himself." 

"Of  course  you  call  intoxication  enjoyment. 
Your  views  are  so  'broad." 

"Are  they?" 

"You  think  they  are,  but  if  I  were  in  your  place 
I  should  exercise  some  selection  in  the  choosing 
of  my  associates." 

"Would   you    really?      How   nice!" 

"My  friends  should  be  my  equals.  Neither  low 
Germans  nor  drunkards." 

"But  men  are  only  equal  when  they  are  drunk." 

From  her  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  Mrs. 
Southard  sent  him  a  look  of  mute  entreaty,  and 
it  struck  him  for  the  thousandth  time  that  the 
wrangling  in  which  he  and  Katherine  indulged 
was  hard  for  his  mother  to  bear.  He  promptly 
abandoned  the  attack,  finished  his  dinner  in  grim 
silence,  and  started  out  again,  bent  on  finding 
Lester,  but  grumbling  as  he  went  that  he  should 
be  so  weak  as  to  care  about  the  boy. 

He  devoted  an  hour  or  so  to  investigating  the 
various  resorts  Lester  was  known  to  frequent, 
and  eventually  learned  that  he  had  been  seen 
very  much  the  worse  for  drink  on  the  day  fol 
lowing  the  night  they  had  spent  together.  Since 
then  no  one  knew  what  had  become  of  him. 
The  opinion  of  the  loafer  who  furnished  the  infor 
mation  was  that  he  had  gone  off  somewhere  to  sober 
up. 

"The  ass !"  thought  Philip  bitterly.    "The  brain- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  325 

less  ass!  Here  I  get  into  a  pretty  state  over  his 
woes  and  this  is  the  extent  of  his  reformation. 
He  goes  and  gets  drunk,  which  is  a  good  reason 
for  his  not  going  home  or  caring  to  see  me." 

It  was  a  bright  fall  afternoon — brisk  and  brac 
ing — with  touches  of  winter  in  the  air.  Philip 
turned  his  back  on  the  town.  It  was  just  the  sea 
son  for  a  tramp  into  the  country,  and  since  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  had  been  wasted  as  far  as 
writing  was  concerned  he  proposed  to  amuse  him 
self. 

As  he  strode  along  thoughts  of  Lester  would 
come  to  him,  and  in  the  end  pity  had  replaced  his 
momentary  bitterness  toward  him. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  muttered.  "Maybe  he  can't 
help  it,  after  all.  Unless  one  has  ambition  or  hope 
there  isn't  much  to  keep  one  up.  I  wish  I  knew 
where  he  has  hidden  himself.  If  I  just  knew  that, 
I  wouldn't  bother." 

He  crossed  from  the  road  he  had  followed  since 
leaving  the  town  and  kept  his  way  by  the  river's 
bank.  In  the  gaunt  leafless  weeds  and  bushes 
choking  the  narrow  path  he  seemed  to  see  flitting 
on  before  him  Lester's  tragic  face. 

Soon  the  town  was  far  in  the  distance  behind 
him,  only  the  smoke  rolling  up  from  the  factory 
chimneys  could  be  seen,  and  still  he  tramped  on 
and  on,  going  to  the  many  favorite  haunts  where 
he  fished  or  swam  as  a  boy.  Each  turn  in  the 
road  marked  some  event  especially  prominent  in 
his  memory. 


326        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

In  spite  of  the  chilliness  in  the  air  he  strolled 
slowly  forward  for  a  mile  or  two,  when  the  yelp 
ing  of  a  dog  attracted  his  attention,  suggesting 
possibilities  of  companionship.  He  went  in  the 
direction  from  which  the  sound  came.  The  pass 
ing  of  a  bend  in  the  river  brought  the  dog  into 
view,  a  small  yellow  creature  crouching  on  its 
haunches  on  the  bank  and  howling  dismally. 
When  it  saw  Philip  this  was  changed  to  short 
jerky  barks  and  it  bounded  down  the  bank  and 
began  to  tug  at  a  dark  object  that  lay  in  a  thin 
scum  of  ice  formed  about  it  in  the  still  water 
near  the  shore. 

From  where  Philip  stood,  a  little  farther  down 
the  stream,  a  curve  in  the  line  of  its  flow  placed 
him  almost  opposite  the  object. 

"It's  a  bit  of  old  clothing,"  he  told  himself.  And 
he  called  aloud:  "Bring  it  out,  sir!  Fetch  it 
here !" 

The  dog,  stimulated  by  his  voice  and  presence, 
barked  more  furiously  than  ever,  while  Philip  fell 
to  throwing  stones  at  the  thing  in  the  water  with 
the  double  idea  of  encouraging  the  dog  and  cut 
ting  the  ice  that  held  it. 

All  at  once  the  dog,  as  though  frightened,  put 
its  tail  between  its  legs  and  ran  up  the  bank, 
where  it  squatted  on  its  haunches  and  resumed 
its  yelping. 

"I  wonder,"  thought  Philip,  "if  it's  my  duty  to 
go  tear  the  thing  loose,  for  my  esteemed  ac 
quaintance,  the  yellow  dog." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  327 

He  armed  himself  with  a  stick.  Thus  prepared 
he  made  a  circuit  of  the  shore.  The  dog  testified 
to  its  appreciation  of  his  evident  intention  in  a 
most  unmistakable  manner. 

"Glad  of  a  little  help,  are  you?"  said  Philip 
aloud  to  the  yellow  dog  as  he  went  toward  the 
object  in  the  water. 

"It  has  a  funny  look,"  he  thought,  "a  very 
funny  look." 

With  his  stick  he  poked  at  it. 

The  object  with  a  light  silly  motion  bobbed  up 
and  down  in  the  water.  Philip  poked  more  vig 
orously.  "Come  loose!"  he  insisted.  "Come 
loose!" 

Then  all  in  an  instant  the  stick  slid  from  his 
grasp  into  the  water  and  glided  away  'beyond  his 
reach. 

The  thing  had  turned — 'turned  with  a  ghastly 
sickening  semblance  of  life,  disclosing  a  blue  dis 
colored  hand  so  poised  that  it  was  outstretched 
straight  and  stiff.  As  it  swept  past  it  touched 
Philip. 

"It's  a  man !"  he  cried,  shrinking  away.  "As  I 
live  it's  a  man!" 

The  object,  turning  farther,  floated  free  upon 
its  back  and  lay  so,  and  he  saw  the  bloated,  hid 
eously  swollen  face  of  Lester  Royal.  There  was  no 
mistaking  it. 

Philip  uncovered  his  head  and  leaned  back  upon 
the  shelving  bank.  The  dog  crept  to  his  side,  and 
he  caressed  it  silently. 


328        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

There  was  no  sound  save  that  of  the  river 
where  it  fretted  against  its  gravelly  bed  and  the 
call  of  crows  from  the  deserted  corn-fields. 

"It's  all  up  with  him  now,"  unconsciously  Philip 
spoke  aloud. 

He  paused  and  gazed  down  upon  the  body  of 
his  friend.  The  dog  crept  closer  and  would  have 
licked  his  face.  This  roused  Philip  from  his 
reverie. 

There  yet  remained  for  him  to  summon  aid, — 
men  and  a  wagon,  and  accompanied  by  the  idle 
throng  that  gathers  at  such  times,  to  go  back  into 
the  town. 


VII 


Geoff  spent  exactly  a  week  in  the  East,  where 
the  money  Margaret  gave  to  him  was  judiciously 
used  as  the  basis  for  certain  operations  of  a 
shady  nature,  and  he  took  to  himself  several  large 
sums  on  which  he  had  no  shadow  of  a  claim, 
viewed  even  from  the  broad  latitudes  of  sport. 

With  this  influx  of  wealth  he  had  proceeded 
to  enjoy  himself,  which  duty  discharged,  he 
did  what  his  sister  had  feared  he  would  do,  he 
came  and  overran  the  Perkins'  household.  He 
brought  with  him  a  valet,  an  accomplished  rascal 
meagerly  patterned  on  his  master's  more  splen 
did  dimensions.  This,  coupled  to  the  many  airs 
he  gave  himself,  sufficed  for  a  local  sensation  and 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  329 

Geoff's  vanity  was  pleased  in  the  supremest  de 
gree.  To  be  stared  at  and  to  excite  wide-eyed 
admiration  and  envy  was  one  of  the  pinnacles 
of  bliss  he  liked  to  scale  when  luck  was  with 
him.  When  it  was  not,  he  was  more  than  con 
tent  to  slink  through  several  grades  of  shabby 
genteel  ruffianism,  attracting  just  as  little  notice 
as  possible.  There  were  four  people,  however, 
who  refused  to  accept  him  at  the  current  valua 
tion,  and  Perkins  led  the  list — Perkins,  who 
watched  him  as  a  cat  does  a  mouse,  and  who 
fell  foul  of  him  innumerable  times  each  day: 
while  Mrs.  Perkins,  mindful  of  Russell's  revela 
tions,  tried  hard,  but  failed  miserably,  to  be  hos 
pitable. 

Nor  did  Philip  and  the  prodigal  prove  congenial. 
They  amused  themselves  by  a  frequent  inter 
change  of  scantily  veiled  insults,  staying  perpetu 
ally  and  perilously  near  downright  trouble  of  the 
head-breaking  sort. 

But  the  most  pronounced  ill  will  was  felt  by 
Franz. 

No  man  fancies  seeing  the  woman  he  loves  con 
trolled  and  commanded,  with  scant  appreciation 
of  her  rights,  by  another,  even  when  that  other 
is  her  brother.  This  Franz  had  to  witness,  and 
his  soul  was  not  particularly  prolific  in  patience 
either. 

Just  how  often  in  the  course  of  an  evening  he 
would  have  liked  to  take  Geoff  by  the  throat  rose 


330        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

nightly  into  a  handsome  aggregate,  for  the  im 
pulse  flourished  mightily. 

As  for  Geoff,  his  selfishness  was  on  the  alert. 
His  sister  had  never  known  young  men  and  here 
were  three,  and  of  the  three,  one  was  unmistak 
ably  in  love  with  her,  and  supposing  she  should 
marry  again.  The  thought  was  like  a  chilly  devil. 
It  gave  him  the  shivers.  Clearly  Margaret  must 
be  removed  from  the  Perkins'  home  and  the  Per 
kins'  influence. 

Fortunately,  at  this  juncture,  Madame  Dennee's 
bankers  in  Paris  forwarded  a  considerable  sum  of 
money,  and  notwithstanding  his  many  resolutions 
to  the  contrary  he  permitted  his  habits  to  get  the 
better  of  his  purpose  and  with  the  major  portion 
of  the  remittance  in  his  possession,  vanished  from 
the  quiet  he  had  threatened  to  disturb. 

Then  was  experienced  a  sense  of  relief  by  all. 
They  had  been  happy  until  he  came.  Margaret 
had  imparted  to  their  intercourse  the  charm  of 
refinement — the  gentlest  of  companionship,  and 
this  is  the  best  of  friendship  and  the  best  of  love. 

It  was  a  night  or  so  after  Geoff's  departure. 
Perkins  and  Franz  were  in  the  library  waiting  for 
Margaret  to  join  them.  The  former  was  worthily 
engaged  in  an  attempt  to  improve  the  passing 
moments  by  vitriolic  comments  upon  the  morals 
of  the  profligate,  a  singularly  congenial  theme 
with  him.  He  had  aired  his  grievance  against 
Geoff,  and  was  basking  in  the  agreeable  glow  of 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  331 

Franz's  approval,  when  the  door  opened  and  Mar 
garet  entered  the  room.  On  seeing  her  he  cried 
as  if  in  astonishment : 

"Why!   What— 

For  Margaret  was  gowned  entirely  in  some  soft 
white  fabric.  He  had  never  seen  her  in  anything 
but  black. 

"Why! — I  say — "  It  was  Perkins  who  spoke, 
surveying  her  with  the  greatest  admiration.  "I 
say,  you  never  looked  half  so  clear  or  beautiful!" 

Perkins  was  a  privileged  character,  and  said  a 
good  deal  the  rest  could  not  but  wish  they  might. 

"Now,"  he  began  again  plaintively,  "I  call  this 
rough — very  rough,  indeed.  I've  got  to  go  to 
the  Monroes'  and  say  good-by  to  Bessie's  sister 
and  her  two  young  ones  .  .  .  but,  I'll  be  back  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour.  You  see,  to-night  her 
sister  and  the  two  young  ones  go  home  and  I 
have  rashly  agreed  to  see  that  they  get  safely 
started  on  their  journey.  I  don't  and  didn't  want 
to  do  this,  but  Bessie's  mother  said  it  would  be 
a  nice  thing  for  me  to  do,  and  she  is  a  woman 
you  can't  say  no  to.  One  of  these  days  I  must 
tell  you  about  Bessie's  mother,  as  she  is  the  most 
remarkable  lady  of  my  acquaintance.  She  is  al 
ways  wanting  a  franchise.  When  it  isn't  a  fran 
chise  it's  an  amendment  and  that's  something  you 
add  to  something  else  to  make  it  different.  She 
is  interested  in  abolishing  whatever  she  disap 
proves  of,  which  I  think  myself  would  be  a  fine 


332        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

way  to  get  rid  of  what  you  don't  like.  She  is  a 
member  of  more  societies  than  I  can  recall,  and 
she  won't  wear  song-birds  in  her  hat — you  simply 
couldn't  induce  her  to.  I  think  if  she  could  she 
would  manage  everybody's  business  except  her 
own,  which  doesn't  interest  her.  It  is  currently 
reported  that  she  talked  Mr.  Monroe,  who  was  a 
very  superior  man  with  a  cork  leg,  straight  into 
his  coffin — from  all  accounts  the  place  for  him, 
because  he  drank  like  a  fish.  I  assure  you  it's 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  I  keep  her  from 
calling  on  you.  I  don't  think  I  ever  mentioned 
it,  but  where  Bessie  and  her  mother  are  con 
cerned  I  am  but  little  better  than  ripened  fruit. 
Now  I  must  go." 

And  before  Margaret  could  reply  to  his  out 
burst,  Perkins  was  gone. 

Franz  had  seated  himself  at  the  piano,  idly 
fingering  the  keys.  Margaret  had  taken  her  place 
beside  the  fire.  She  was  rather  wishing  that  Mrs. 
Perkins,  who  had  slipped  out  an  hour  before,  "to 
be  gone  five  minutes,"  would  return. 

All  at  once,  Franz  turning  from  the  piano, 
looked  at  her  as  if  trying  to  solve  some  problem. 

Was  she  still  absorbed  by  thoughts  of  the  past, 
or  did  the  present  speak  louder  to  her?  Did  her 
change  of  dress  bear  any  significance  .  .  .  could 
she  possibly  forget  the  social  barriers  that  stood 
between  them?  What  a  fool  he  was  not  to  know 
more  of  woman's  ways.  All  the  locked  secrets 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  333 

of  her  heart  were  hidden  from  him,  he  could  but 
guess  and  wonder. 

"Won't  you  play  for  me?"  Margaret  asked. 

It  was  a  new  experience,  that  of  being  left  alone 
with  Becker;  she  was  not  quite  easy  in  it.  Franz 
turned  to  the  keyboard.  "What  would  you  like 
to  have  me  play?"  he  asked. 

"Whatever  you  are  in  the  mood  for." 

Franz's  fingers  rested  caressingly  upon  the  keys. 
"I  shall  improvise  for  you." 

Then  low  and  soft,  as  though  each  note  was  a 
love  word,  he  began — his  fingers  shaping  into 
sound  his  thoughts.  As  he  played  these  changed 
from  doubt  to  certainty  and  the  blood  rushed1 
tingling  through  his  veins. 

The  all  but  imperceptible  rustle  of  Margaret's 
dress  caused  him  to  look  up.  The  song  of  doubt, 
entreaty  and  of  triumph  stopped  abruptly.  She 
was  standing  at  his  side,  pale  and  breathless,  as 
though  drawn  there  by  a  spell. 

Then  the  red  burned  upon  her  cheeks — she 
would  have  turned  away. 

"Don't  go!  Don't  leave  me — you  must  not! 
Not  until  I  know!" 

He  caught  one  of  her  hands  into  his  own  and 
held  it  firmly,  but  she  offered  no  resistance. 

"You  must  tell  me  now — now,"  he  said.  "I 
can  wait  no  longer,  Margaret! — Margaret!" 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?"  she  asked  in  tones  so 
low  he  could  scarcely  hear.  It  gave  him  courage 


334        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

as  hers  seemed  to  ebb,  for  she  was  pale  and 
trembling. 

"That  you  love  me!"  he  cried,  "that  you  love 
me,  Margaret !  That  you  love  me  and  will  be 
my  wife."  And  he  drew  her  into  his  arms. 
"Margaret!  Margaret!"  repeating  her  name  in  an 
ecstacy  of  delight.  "Is  it  so?  Do  you  love  me, 
dear?" 

She  put  up  her  hand  appealingly  as  if  she  en 
treated  him  to  say  no  more. 

Slowly  he  loosed  his  arms  from  about  her  and 
she  sank  down  into  a  chair,  while  Franz  regarded 
her  with  a  troubled  brow. 

"Let  me  think!"  she  gasped.  "Oh!  let  me 
think!"  Then  sadly:  "I  have  lost  my  friend.  I 
am  so  sorry — so  sorry." 

"Yes,"  Franz  answered  steadily,  "you  must 
choose  now  and  forever  between  your  friend  and 
your  lover." 

On  the  table  beside  Margaret's  chair  lay  the 
book  she  had  been  reading  that  afternoon.  A 
black  bordered  handkerchief  was  visible  where  it 
rested  in  the  leaves  of  the  half-opened  volume 
marking  her  place.  In  their  nervous  wanderings 
her  eyes  fell  upon  it  and  their  roving  glance  was 
instantly  arrested. 

The  memory  of  what  had  been  fell  like  a  cloud, 
blotting  out  the  present. 

Franz  saw  the  handkerchief,  too,  saw  that  she 
shrank  from  it.  He  stretched  forth  his  hand  and 
took  up  the  bit  of  black  and  white.  He  held  it 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  335 

in  his  tightened  grasp  until  it  was  a  crushed  and 
crumpled  heap  in  his  broad  palm,  then  it  was 
dropped  to  be  whirled  up  in  momentary  bright 
ness  by  the  fire. 

Margaret  gave  a  little  cry.  What  it  meant  he 
knew,  for  it  was  glad,  free  and  bouyant,  as  if  a 
load  had  been  lifted  from  her  by  the  single  act. 

She  put  out  her  arms  and  Franz  sank  down  on 
his  knees  before  her.  A  new  feeling  surged  into 
his  heart.  He  had  felt  a  man's  desire  for  posses 
sion — now,  when  the  victory  was  won,  this  was 
changed  to  infinite  tenderness.  He  looked  up  into 
her  face  and  saw  what  a  woman's  love  was  like, 
and  he  was  well  content. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  "Margaret,  has  it  all 
ended — the  past?  Has  the  new  day  dawned  for 
us — for  both  of  us?" 

And  Margaret,  her  hand  resting  on  his  shoul 
der,  answered,  "Yes." 

How  long  they  were  together  after  that  neither 
of  them  knew.  The  happy  moments  are  those 
that  are  never  counted.  Only  misery  has  time  to 
note  the  flight  of  time  and  to  curse  its  slowness, 
grumbling  at  the  lagging  seconds. 

But  she  had  space  to  tell  him  of  the  life  she 
had  lived,  the  life  that  took  its  place  that  night 
with  the  things  to  be  forgotten. 

Perkins,  returning  from  seeing  his  friends 
started  on  their  journey,  chanced  to  open  the 
library  door  quietly  and  saw  something  which  he 
subsequently  described  to  Philip  as  "paralyzing." 


336        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

His  face  grew  very  red — so  red,  that  the 
freckles  on  it  looked  white  and  sickly  by  com 
parison. 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  tiptoed  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hall  where  he  stood  for  a  long 
time  lost  in  profound  thought.  He  might  have 
stood  there  for  an  indefinite  period  had  he  not 
heard  some  one  come  up  the  steps  and  fumble 
around  in  the  outer  darkness  for  the  bell. 

It  was  Philip,  and  before  he  succeeded  in  find 
ing  what  he  was  searching  for,  the  door  was 
opened  by  young  Perkins  who,  seizing  him  by 
the  neck,  whispered  hoarsely  in  his  ear: 

"Don't  utter  a  sound!  Don't!— or  I  shall 
strangle  you  on  the  spot." 

With  no  further  explanation  Philip  was  dragged 
back  through  the  hall — Perkins  executing  a  wild 
dance  the  while — and  up  to  Perkins'  apartments. 
Here  he  was  relinquished  from  his  friend's  force 
ful  grasp,  becoming  once  more  a  free  agent. 

"What's  got  into  you,  Perkins?"  he  asked,  ad 
justing  his  collar  and  cravat. 

"It's  settled!"  Perkins  said  excitedly;  "they  have 
arranged  it — and  here  I  figured  all  along  that  I 
should  have  to  do  it  for  them,  which  just  shows 
what  a  billy-goat  I  am.  Aren't  you  glad,  old 
fellow?" 

"Look  here,  Perkins,"  Philip  remonstrated  re 
proachfully,  "why  don't  you  tell  me  what  you  are 
talking  about?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  337 

"You  fool!  Haven't  you  got  any  sense? — 
Franz  has  gone  and  done  it!" 

Whereat,  instead  of  being  offended  at  such  un 
usual  language  as  applied  to  himself,  Philip 
clutched  Perkins  much  as  Perkins  had  previously 
clutched  him  and  they  danced  madly  back  and 
forth  across  the  room. 

"I  pledge  you  my  sacred  word  of  honor,"  Per 
kins  managed  to  gasp  in  the  midst  of  their  career 
ing,  "I  pledge  you  my  sacred  word  of  honor  I 
felt  as  though  I  should  faint — actually  faint.  I 
was  paralyzed." 

"Why,  see  here!"  and  Philip  came  to  a  stand, 
struck  by  an  idea  he  had  long  cherished  but  had 
lost  sight  of  for  the  moment — "I  thought  you 
were  in  love  with  her  yourself." 

"So  I  am.  I  adore  her!  positively  adore  her, 
you  know,  but  what's  a  fellow  to  do  when  he  feels 
himself  thoroughly  unworthy,  like  the  dust  be 
neath  her  feet?" 

He  folded  his  fat  hands  resignedly  over  the 
central  region  of  his  plump  person — their  favorite 
resting-place. 

"You  see,  Philip,  I  could  never  satisfy  her  as 
Franz  can  and  will;  besides  it's  the  most  mon 
strous  presumption  to  imagine  even  that  she  could 
care  for  a  badly  freckled  specimen  like  myself. 
Dear  old  Franz!  he  will  have  his  opportunity  now, 
for  you  know  she  is  very  rich,  has  something 
tremendous  a  year,  and  she  will  gain  a  defender 


338        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

who  will  protect  her  from  that  blackguard  of  a 
brother  of  hers.  Altogether,  it  is  too  lovely  for 
words — quite  ideal,  you  know." 

Philip  looked  at  him  admiringly.  "I  declare 
you  are  a  good  little  beggar!" 

Perkins  winced  at  the  adjective  "little".  He 
did  not  like  it  applied  to  himself.  He  shook  his 
head  reflectively. 

"My  dear  fellow,  it  could  never  have  been  me — 
and,  too,  there  is  Bessie.  It  has  become  solely  a 
question  of  ripened  fruit  between  us.  Besides" — 
manfully — "I  have  from  the  first  considered  Mar 
garet  as  so  far  above  me  that  I  have  never 
wearied  in  my  affection  for  Bessie — or  her  moth 
er,"  he  made  haste  to  add. 

Philip  laughed. 

"Particularly  her  mother." 

"I  simply  include  Mrs.  Monroe,  because  it  is  im 
possible  to  leave  her  out.  She  is  so  accustomed  to 
mixing  in  things." 

"I  suppose  they  will  live  abroad  pretty  much," 
Philip  said.  "It's  the  place  for  Franz." 

"I  say,"  Perkins  burst  out  blankly,  "that's  so, 
isn't  it?  You  know  she  thinks  him  a  great  com 
poser." 

"And  so  he  is,"  Philip  replied. 

Perkins  gazed  at  him  mournfully,  blinking  his 
eyes,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  gloomy  accents. 

"He  will  take  her  away,  won't  he?  Having 
her  here  forever  is  all  up.  Do  you  know  I  hadn't 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  339 

thought  of  that — not  till  this  minute.  Really,  it 
very  much  distresses  me,  just  the  mere  thought." 

Vouching  for  the  truth  of  what  he  said,  a  tear 
trickled  languidly  down  his  nose,  and  after  hang 
ing  reluctant  upon  its  very  tip  as  though  unde 
cided  as  to  its  ultimate  course,  fell  to  his  clasped 
hands  where  it  glistened  like  a  dewdrop  in  May. 

"I — this  is  very  overpowering.  I  had  lost  sight 
of  the  future  entirely  in  my  great  pleasure  at  what 
has  taken  place.  Bless  me!  I  never  speculated  on 
the  results — never  once." 

He  raised  his  glance  pathetically  to  his  friend's 
face.  "It's  a  damn  poor  showing  for  cousins, 
isn't  it?" 

The  round  face  with  its  stubby  fringe  and 
blinking  eyes  shaded  by  their  colorless  lashes 
destroyed  Philip's  gravity. 

"Why  don't  you  get  them  to  adopt  you?"  he 
said. 

"Do  you  fancy  they  would?" — with  a  gleam  of 
hope.  Then  as  he  saw  the  smile  playing  about 
the  corners  of  Philip's  mouth:  "You  are  jolly 
ing.  Please  don't,  old  fellow — not  now." 

"We  shall  have  to  get  our  comfort  from  the 
belief  that  this  is  for  their  great  good,"  Philip 
said. 

"So  we  must,"  Perkins  acquiesced  cheerfully. 
"What  a  disgusting  pig  I  am  to  think  of  myself 
when  they  are  so  happy." 

Later,  on  going  down-stairs,   they  encountered 


340        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

Franz  and  Margaret  in  the  hall,  and  Philip,  glanc 
ing  at  Margaret  as  she  stood  just  beneath  the 
tempered  light  falling  from  the  chandelier,  de 
cided  he  had  never  seen  any  one  so  beautiful — 
except  Barbara,  who  was  incomparable.  He  di 
vined  that  now  to  her,  life  seemed  to  hold  much 
— to  be  so  fine  a  gift. 

The  two  young  men  left  the  house  together. 
Philip  at  first  tried  to  talk,  but  Becker  made  his 
replies  with  such  indifference  that  he  soon  aban 
doned  the  trial  as  useless. 

Franz's  elation  was  scarcely  concealed  by  his  si 
lence  or  his  reserve.  It  spoke  in  the  exultant 
heaving  of  his  breast,  in  his  quick  elastic  step,  in 
his  every  movement.  As  they  came  to  his  door 
he  broke  the  silence  with : 

"I  shall  go  on  with  you,  Philip,  and  see  you 
home." 

"As  you  like,  old  fellow,"  Philip  answered. 

No  more  was  said  until  they  bade  each  other 
good  night. 

Franz  turned  back  alone — but  not  to  retrace 
his  steps.  Instead  he  rambled  through  the  streets 
of  the  sleeping  town — to  find  himself — he  knew 
not  how,  a  dozen  times  beneath  her  window.  So 
he  wore  out  the  night,  and  when  at  last  the  day 
broke,  it  found  him  going  in  the  direction  of  his 
home. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  341 


VIII 

Philip  was  looking  from  his  window  out  upon 
the  street  where  the  first  snows  of  winter  lay 
slowly  melting  in  the  sunshine,  when  a  cab  rat 
tled  up  through  the  mud  and  slush.  It  stopped 
before  the  house  and  his  interest  became  active. 

"It's  the  saintly  Anson!  This  is,  indeed,  pen 
ance  for  my  sins." 

Almost  with  the  thought  Anson  stepped  from 
the  cab  and  was  followed  by  a  gentleman  who 
had  no  small  trouble  in  wriggling  through  the 
narrow  door. 

Philip,  with  a  groan  of  disgust,  recognized  the 
junior  member  of  the  firm  employing  his  brother. 

"As  if  Anson  were  not  affliction  enough,"  he 
thought,  "he  brings  Mr.  Hale  to  bore  us — espe 
cially  me,  by  prosy  recitals  of  his  own  worth." 

He  promptly  put  himself  beyond  his  brother's 
range  of  vision,  as  he  wished  to  avoid  the  neces 
sity  of  going  down-stairs  until  the  last  moment. 

He  resumed  his  work,  and  for  an  hour  or  more 
wrote  steadily  on,  then  he  threw  down  his  pen 
and  was  resting  his  eyes,  his  hands  before  them, 
when  the  door  opened  and  his  mother  entered 
the  room.  He  knew  who  it  was  without  looking 
up,  since  she  was  the  only  one  of  all  the  family 
who  ever  invaded  his  privacy. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  he  asked. 


342         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"May  I  see  you,  Philip?     Are  you  very  busy?" 

There  was  something  in  her  voice  that  caused 
him  to  glance  around  quickly.  "Why,  what  is  it, 
mother?" 

He  left  his  chair  and  went  to  her  side.  He  saw 
that  her  face  was  red  and  swollen  as  though  from 
much  weeping.  "What  is  it,  dear?"  He  put  his 
arms  about  her.  "Does  Anson  bring  bad  news 
of  any  sort?" 

By  a  sudden  gesture  she  freed  herself  from  his 
embrace,  covering  her  face  with  her  apron. 

"Oh!  Philip,  it's  awful."  And  she  began  to  cry 
softly. 

"But  what  is  it — why  don't  you  tell  me?" 

He  tried  to  draw  the  apron  away  that  he  might 
see  her  face  again,  but  she  resisted  his  gentle 
force. 

"What  is  it,  dear?     Is  it  Anson — is  he  ill?" 

"It's  worse  than  that !  Oh !  a  million  times 
worse !" 

At  her  words  the  desperate  sickening  feeling 
begotten  of  some  great  and  unknown  calamity, 
the  forerunner  of  actual  knowledge,  came  into  his 
heart. 

"You  must  tell  me,  mother,  or  how  can  I  ever 
help  you?" 

"I  shall,  only  wait  a  minute  until  I  am  calm, 
for  you  must  know — and  you  must  save  him!" 

"I  save  him!  What  do  you  mean?  What  has 
happened  to  him?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  343 

"You  won't  blame  him?  Promise  me  you  won't 
•be  hard,  now  before  I  tell  you.  That  you  won't 
say  or  think  unkind  things  of  him?  Promise  me, 
promise  me,  Philip !"  For  he  had  hesitated. 

"I  promise,  mother,  for  your  sake." 

"No!  no!  for  his  own." 

"For  his  sake  then.     It  is  all  one." 

"It  is  difficult  to  tell  even  you,  Philip." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  once  more.  "There, 
you  don't  mind  me,  you  know,"  he  said  tenderly. 
"Dear  little  mother,  so  brave  and  good,  you  really 
can't  mean  you  mind  me?" 

It  was  in  a  hushed  strainei  voice,  as  though 
she  feared  the  shameful  secret  she  had  to  confide 
would  find  a  listener  in  the  very  air,  that  she 
told  Philip  of  his  brother's  fall  from  grace. 

"He  has  taken  money  from  the  firm.  A  thou 
sand  dollars.  It  was  not  stealing."  She  was 
quick  to  shield  him.  "He  expected — he  fully  ex 
pected  to  pay  it  back,  down  to  the  last  penny, 
but  the  amount  grew  and  grew,  and  soon  it  was 
beyond  him.  He  meant  to  be  honest.  He  has 
been  so  good  always,  no  one  would  dare  accuse 
him  of  stealing.  You  know  it  was  not;  say  it 
was  not!  Say  you  don't  think  it!" 

She  had  given  way  utterly  to  her  grief,  and  to 
quiet  her  he  said: 

"Of  course  it  wasn't  stealing." 

"There!"  reassured  and  rendered  almost  happy. 
"There,  I  knew  you  would  understand.  Why, 


344        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

even  Mr.  Hale  speaks  of  it  in  the  kindest  way. 
He  knows  Anson  to  be  perfectly  reliable — he 
doesn't  dare  question  it.  Everybody  knows  how 
good  he  is,  he  wouldn't  think  of  doing  wrong. 
He  has  explained  it  all.  At  first  he  took  the 
money  as  an  advance  upon  his  salary  and  then  the 
indebtedness  grew.  He  was  never  able  to  make 
good  what  he  had  borrowed.  It  was  so  easy  to 
take  what  he  needed — so  easy  to  think  he  could 
repay  it.  He  meant  to  do  what  was  right:  I  am 
sure  of  this.  If  I  were  not  it  would  kill  me." 
She  paused  for  an  instant.  "It  was  unfair  to  put 
such  a  pitfall  in  any  man's  path,  no  matter  how 
honest.  It  was  unjust,  and  they  should  suffer, 
but — but" — looking  up  appealingly  into  his  face — 
"we  must  save  Anson,  must  we  not?  For  if  we 
don't — he  will  be  arrested  and  then  every  one  will 
know.  The  whole  town.  Think  of  the  disgrace— 
the  awful  humiliation!  We  must  save  him.  He 
is  your  brother,  and  deep  in  your  heart  you  love 
him.  Say  you  do!" 

Philip,  looking  at  her,  bowed,  broken,  crushed, 
scarcely  daring  to  raise  her  eyes  to  his,  answered 
that  he  loved  his  brother,  but  in  his  soul  he 
cursed  him  for  the  suffering  he  had  caused. 

"Mr.  Hale  assures  me  that  if  the  money  is  re 
turned  at  once,  it  shall  be  kept  a  secret — not  even 
the  girls  need  know.  You  are  the  only  one  who 
can  do  this,  Philip.  It  all  rests  with  you.  "Will 
you  save  him  ?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  345 

"For  his  own  sake  and  for  yours — but,  most  of 
all  for  yours,  dear,  yes." 

In  an  instant  he  remembered  what  that  money 
was  to  do  for  him.  More  than  money  ever  did 
before.  The  thought  made  him  sick  with  a  deadly 
nausea.  He  saw  his  hope  sink  lower  and  lower 
until  it  entirely  ceased  to  be  and  despair  stood 
in  its  place.  He  had  all  but  won  in  the  struggle, 
and  now  to  have  the  fruits  snatched  from  him 
at  the  last  moment!  He  had  saved  for  another  to 
scatter. 

"What  will  become  of  Anson?"  he  asked. 
"Where  will  he  go?  Of  course  he  can't  remain 
with  the  firm.  It  wouldn't  be  permitted,  I  sup 
pose,  nor  pleasant." 

"He  has  a  friend  in  the  West — some  place  in 
California — in  business  there.  He  has  been  urg 
ing  Anson  for  months  to  come  to  him,  and  now, 
it  is  all  most  fortunate,  he  has  decided  to  go. 
He  can't  very  well  stay  here.  If  he  should  there 
is  danger  the  secret  might  be  discovered:  he 
would  have  to  get  a  new  position  and  people 
would  wonder,  but  once  he  is  gone,  they  will 
forget  all  about  him  and  then  there  will  be  no 
talk.  No  one  will  ever  learn  why  he  left." 

Philip  looked  at  her  commiseratingly.  With 
his  hand  he  brushed  away  the  white  hair  lying 
in  disorder  upon  her  forehead. 

"Poor  mother,  poor  mother!  and  you  have  been 
so  proud  of  him!" 


346        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"As  I  shall  always  be.  My  poor  Anson!  As  I 
shall  always  be — as  I  am  of  all  of  you."  She 
smiled  bravely  through  her  tears. 

"I  shall  go  for  the  money.  I'd  better  go  at 
once  or  I  may  find  the  bank  closed." 

He  spoke  collectedly  and  his  mother  did  not  di 
vine  from  any  words  of  his  that  he  was  preparing 
to  make  the  greatest  sacrifice  possible  to  him. 
Nor  would  he  have  her  know.  There  was  misery 
enough  for  her  as  it  was.  Yet  the  thought  of 
what  he  had  to  do  brought  him  unspeakable 
agony.  It  was  not  the  loss  of  money,  for  money 
of  itself  was  nothing  to  him,  but  everything  in 
his  little  world  was  held  in  place  by  what  he  was 
giving  up. 

"I  shall  get  the  money,"  he  repeated  quietly. 
"I  shall  go  for  it  at  once." 

"You  are  so  good !"  she  cried.  "You  were  al 
ways  my  comfort.  I  can  rely  upon  you  more  than 
on  the  others." 

She  reached  up  and  kissed  him  again  and  again. 

"Though  no  one  ever  knows  of  the  sacrifice 
you  make,  Anson  and  I  will,  and  we  will  honor 
you  for  it.  Do  not  think  that  we  undervalue  it." 

He  kissed  her  softly.  No  amount  of  praise 
could  have  wrung  the  money  from  him,  but  her 
tears  had  been  more  potent. 

"You  don't  care,"  she  questioned,  "that  the 
girls  are  not  to  be  told  of  what  you  do  for  An 
son?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  347 

"No,  dear.  Glory  of  that  sort  does  not  in  the 
least  appeal  to  me.  I  have  no  objections  to  being 
deprived  of  it.  What  I  do  I  do  quite  willingly. 
I  am  satisfied  with  your  thanks  and  the  conscious 
ness  that  I  have  in  a  measure  eased  this  burden 
for  you."  He  smiled  sadly  down  upon  her.  "Now 
I  will  go,"  and  unclasping  her  arms  from  about 
his  neck,  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

After  a  few  moments'  waiting  to  regain  her  com 
posure,  Mrs.  Southard  went  down  to  the  parlor 
where  Anson  and  Hale  sat,  the  former  crestfallen 
and  not  over-confident  of  Philip's  generosity. 

To  Hale  she  said:  "My  son  will  be  back  in  a 
few  moments  with  the  sum  you  require.  He  has 
just  gone  for  it." 

Anson's  face  lit  up  with  joy.  He  was  safe! 
How  lucky  it  was  that  Philip  had  kept  his  money 
instead  of  spending  it! 

They  did  not  have  to  wait  long  for  Philip's  re 
turn.  His  mother,  who  had  been  watching  from 
the  window,  saw  him  as  he  came  into  the  yard, 
and  quitting  the  room,  joined  him  in  the  hall. 

"You  have  it?  You  were  in  time?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  placing  a  bundle  of  bills  in  her 
hand.  "It  is  a  thousand  dollars  you  need,  is  it 
not?" 

"Yes.  It  is  so  good  of  you.  How  can  I  ever 
tell  you  what  it  means  to  me !" 

With  a  heavy  step,  as  if  all  the  vigor  had  left 


348        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

him,  Philip  slowly  mounted  the  stairs  leading  up 
to  the  floor  above. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  see  Mr.  Hale?"  his 
mother  called. 

"I  had  rather  not,  dear,"  he  answered. 

He  walked  as  one  in  a  dream,  mechanically  clos 
ing  the  door  behind  him  as  he  entered  the  room. 
Then  he  dropped  wearily  into  his  chair  beside  the 
table. 

He  was  overwhelmed  by  the  catastrophe.  A 
comprehension  of  it  all,  and  the  probable  results, 
began  to  come  to  him.  He  threw  the  few  hun 
dred  dollars  remaining  of  his  little  fortune  on  the 
table.  They  were  worthless,  so  far  as  the  pur 
pose  for  which  they  had  been  saved  was  con 
cerned. 

Stunned  and  stupid  he  gazed  at  the  little  heap 
of  paper.  Each  dollar  represented  some  privation 
in  his  daily  life. 

With  savage  fervor  he  brought  his  clenched 
hand  down  on  the  little  heap,  while  from  between 
his  set  teeth  he  ground  out  curses,  for  now  came 
a  frenzy  of  disappointment. 

It  soon  subsided,  as  all  violent  emotions  are  bound 
to  do. 

Only  a  dull  pain  remained.  Still  he  kept  his 
gaze  fastened  on  the  money  before  him.  It  re 
minded  him  of  what  the  sum  had  once  been — and 
was  no  longer.  He  must  begin  again, — go  through 
the  round  of  petty  self-denial,  the  soul-stunting 
process  of  small  economy. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  349 

"It  will  be  so  long — so  very  long  until  I  get  so 
much  again,"  he  thought.  "While  I  am  about  it 
a  thousand  things  may  happen  to  rob  me  of  the 
inspiration  of  her  love.  And  all  for  the  theft  of 
a  wretched  paltry  pittance,  so  small  it  could  have 
done  Anson  no  good,  and  yet  so  large  it  may  be 
the  ruin  of  my  hopes.  It  is  unjust  that  I  should 
suffer  for  him!  A  thousand  dollars!  Bah!  The 
commonplaceness  of  it!*' 

With  his  fist  hard  pressed  upon  the  table  and 
his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  he  sat  and  thought; 
thought  with  a  brain  mad  and  drunk  with  grief. 
He  would  have  liked  to  turn  his  face  toward  the 
wall  and  give  up.  He  was  worsted.  The  props 
with  which  he  had  sustained  himself  were  gone. 

How  he  hated  Anson!  The  fool! — who  had 
lived  in  a  false  world  of  pious  frauds;  whose  man 
hood  had  failed  at  the  one  test  to  which  he  had 
been  put;  who  had  succumbed  to  temptation  at 
the  first  opportunity. 

To  cover  up  this — to  put  a  patch  upon  the  torn 
garment  of  his  brother's  honesty  he  must  suffer. 
How  he  hated  him ! 

He  heard  Hale  leave  the  house,  but  dared  not 
look  to  see  him  go.  He  took  all  his  hope,  all  his 
aspirations  with  him.  And  now  how  would  it  all 
end?  Could  he  ask  Barbara  to  wait  much  longer? 
How  would  he  meet  her  father's  exactions  ?  What 
excuse  was  there  to  offer  for  the  sudden  vanish 
ing  of  his  savings?  Mr.  Gerard  would  think  he 
had  been  lied  to  from  the  start. 


350        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Down-stairs  the  girls  and  Mrs.  Southard  were 
making  ready  for  Anson's  departure.  It  had 
been  arranged  that  he  should  leave  at  once.  They 
moved  about  noiselessly,  talking  in  whispers,  the 
girls  wildly  curious,  yet  not  venturing  to  question 
their  mother.  The  whole  atmosphere  was  as 
though  some  one  had  died.  It  pervaded  the  en 
tire  house.  Where  he  sat  in  his  room,  Philip  felt 
it.  In  fancy  he  saw  his  mother  packing  Anson's 
trunk — saw  her  tears  fall  silently  as  she  folded 
away  his  clothes — and  as  his  fancy  saw  it,  so  he 
knew  it  must  be  in  reality. 

Despite  the  load  that  lay  upon  him  crushing 
him  to  earth,  he  was  glad  she  had  been  spared 
the  greater  humiliation  and  disgrace  that  but 
for  him  would  have  come  to  them.  The  realiza 
tion  of  this  lessened  the  extent  of  his  own  anguish 
somewhat,  at  least  it  was  a  consolation  to  feel 
that  he  had  shielded  her,  no  matter  at  what  cost. 

It  was  dark  when  his  mother  finally  knocked 
at  his  door  and  told  him  that  supper  was  ready. 

"I'm   not   hungry,"   he   answered. 

She  opened  the  door  and  came  in,  saying  in 
some  surprise  as  she  did  so,  for  his  lamp  was  un- 
lighted: 

"Why,  Philip,  what's  wrong?'* 

"Xothing.   dear,   nothing.     Why   do   you    ask?" 

"You  don't  begrudge  the  money  that  kept  us 
all  from  shame — you  don't  regret  that?"  She 
put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  351 

"I  regret  nothing.  For  you  I  would  have  done 
a  hundred  times  what  I  did  to-day,  and  counted 
it  a  small  recompense  for  what  you  have  given 
me  all  these  years." 

"You  mean  it,  Philip?" 

"Certainly.  I  was  sitting  here  in  the  dusk 
thinking  it  over — thinking  how  glad  I  am  that 
it  was  in  my  power  to  do  this  for  you — and  him. 
No  matter  what  the  outcome  may  be,  I  shall  not 
regret  it  for  one  instant." 

Her  hand  caressed  his  cheek  softly:  "Won't 
you  come  down  to  supper?" 

"What's  the  use?     I  couldn't  eat  now." 

"But  you  will  not  see  Anson  again.  It  may  be 
years  before  he  comes  back  to  us.  Do  come 
down." 

"I  shall  go  with  him  to  the  train.  Won't  that 
do  just  as  well?  I  wish  to  think  a  while  longer, 
here  in  the  dark  by  myself." 

*:I  know  he  will  be  delighted  to  have  you,"  she 
said.  "Poor  Anson!  It  has  been  a  terrible  blow 
to  him." 

Philip  smiled  queerly  to  himself.  He  doubted 
the  delight  Anson  would  derive  from  his  company 
just  then,  but  he  made  no  response. 

"It  seems  unfair  to  ask  any  more  of  you,"  his 
mother  said  with  reluctance,  "but  Anson  is  almost 
penniless.  If  you  could  only  help  just  a  little  it 
might  make  it  easier  for  him." 

Philip  gathered  up  the  bills  that  still  lay  on  the 


352        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

table  where  he  had  thrown  them.  "Here  are  one 
or  two  hundred  dollars,"  he  said,  "he  may  as  well 
have  them.  They  are  of  no  use  to  me,  and  you 
will  feel  so  much  better  to  have  him  go,  if  you 
know  he  has  something  to  fall  back  on!" 

She  took  the  money  gratefully.  "He  has  prom 
ised  to  repay  all  he  has  had  from  you,  so  don't 
worry  about  not  getting  it  back." 

"Ah!  dear,"  and  he  laughed,  "that  does  not 
worry  me  in  the  least.  I  don't  bother  about  what 
he  will  or  will  not  do." 

She  turned  to  the  door:  "I  shall  call  you  then 
when  he  is  ready."  And  she  left  him  to  his  soli 
tude. 

Philip  wondered  when  he  was  once  more  alone 
what  his  mother's  action  would  have  been  had  she 
known  what  that  money  was  to  do  for  him.  On 
the  whole  he  concluded  it  was  just  as  well  she  did 
not  know.  He  became  reflective.  With  practise 
it  might  be  possible  for  him  to  acquire  a  habit 
which  would  enable  him  to  derive  a  melancholy 
pleasure  from  being  miserable.  He  laughed  aloud. 

"I  never  knew  that  farce  and  tragedy  touched 
hands,"  he  thought. 

It  was  quite  late  when  his  mother  called  from 
the  foot  of  the  stairs:  "Anson  is  ready,  Philip. 
If  you  will  come,  he  will  be  so  pleased  to  have 
you  go  down  to  the  station  with  him." 

He  went  down  and  found  her  waiting  for  him 
in  the  hall.  "You  will  be  kind,"  she  whispered 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  353 

anxiously.  "You  won't  say  anything  hard,  when 
you  are  alone  with  him?  Poor  boy!  he  feels  it 
so  keenly.  You  will  be  considerate  of  him?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Don't  distress  yourself.  I  shall  be 
as  kind  as  I  know  how." 

They  went  into  the  sitting-room  where  Anson 
was  bidding  good-by  to  his  sisters.  Philip  had 
no  wish  to  witness  his  mother's  farewells.  He 
picked  up  a  valise  his  brother  was  to  carry  with 
him,  saying:  "I  shall  start  on  ahead,  Anson." 

"All  right.  I  shall  be  along  presently,"  his 
brother  answered. 

Philip  escaped  into  the  open  air.  Soon  he  heard 
Anson  coining,  waited  until  he  caught  up,  and 
the  two  brothers,  without  a  word,  set  off  for  the 
station  very  much  as  though  they  were  trying  to 
run  away  from  each  other,  but  had  foolishly 
elected  to  go  in  the  same  direction  while  about  it. 

Their  destination  was  reached  before  either  had 
framed  a  speech  diplomatic  enough  for  the  occa 
sion. 

Anson  went  to  ascertain  how  much  time  he  had 
and  returned  almost  immediately  to  say  that  he 
had  ten  minutes  left. 

"But,"  he  added,  "you  needn't  wait  on  my  ac 
count." 

'Til  see  you  off.     I  told  mother  I  would." 

"Of  course — if  you  like.  I  thought  you  might 
want  to  go  home." 

They  fell  to  pacing  back  and  forth  across  the 


354         THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

platform,  still  apparently  trying  to  get  away  from 
each  other.  Neither  spoke,  and  it  was  only  when 
the  train  rushed  in  with  a  trailing  echo  of  sound 
from  out  the  darkness,  that  An  son  found  courage 
to  say  hurriedly  from  the  door  of  his  car : 

"Mother  told  you,  didn't  she,  that  I  would  pay 
up  all  I  have  had  from  you?  I  intend  to  and  shall, 
but  I  can't  do  it  at  once."  The  whistle  of  the 
engine  broke  in  upon  him.  "I'll  do  it  sure,  Philip, 
I  won't  forget." 

"There  is  no  haste,"  his  brother  answered. 
"Don't  sacrifice  yourself  because  of  me." 

He  extended  his  hand.  "Good-by  and  good  luck 
to  you." 

The  train  began  to  move. 

"It  was  awfully  good  of  you.  You  have  done 
a  lot  for  me.  I " 

The  train  bore  him  swiftly  away,  but  standing 
as  he  did  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  last  car,  the 
door  at  his  back,  Philip  saw  him  wave  his  hand 
kerchief  and  he  responded  in  a  like  fashion,  wish 
ing  he  were  certain  Anson  could  see  him  as  plainly 
as  he  saw  Anson. 

And  so  he  stood  until  long  after  the  train  had 
vanished,  a  miserable  lonely  feeling  within  him. 

It   was   all   hopeless — the    whole    affair. 

His  mother  would  never  be  quite  the  same 
again,  she  could  never  live  beyond  the  memory  of 
that  day.  At  last  he  muttered: 

"Poor  devil !     I  am  positive  he  didn't  mean  to 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  355 

harm  any  one,  nor  did  he  mean  to  be  bad.  He 
has  not  the  sense  in  the  first  place.  What  he  did, 
was  simply  the  blundering  clumsy  conduct  of 
a  fool." 


IX 


Changes  occurred  in  view  of  the  altered  rela 
tions  between  Franz  and  Margaret. 

It  came  to  be  Perkins'  nightly  custom  to  formu 
late  labored  excuses  that  would  enable  him  to  re 
tire  to  his  own  apartments,  for  as  he  said  to 
Philip:  "Just  suppose  it  was  one  of  us!" 

Nor  did  the  change  stop  here.  Mrs.  Perkins 
suddenly  found  it  convenient  to  spend  her  even 
ings  in  the  back  parlor  where  the  arrangement  of 
lights  was  more  to  her  taste  and  where  she  could 
sew  without  straining  her  eyes. 

Perkins  was  treating  himself  to  a  few  remarks 
one  evening  before  taking  Philip — who  had  just 
come  in — up-stairs  for  a  smoke: 

"I  think  I  got  off  a  very  good  thing  to-day," 
he  was  saying,  "not  too  amusing,  but  very  bright 
and  to  the  point.  When  you  take  into  account 
that  it  comes  from  a  fellow  who  lays  no  claim 
to  being  a  wit,  why  it's  not  half  bad.  If  you 
are  all  dying  to  hear,  I  might  be  induced  to  re 
peat  it."  He  did  not  wait  for  their  entreaties 
however.  "You  see,  it  was  this.  It's  quite 
complicated  and  calls  for  a  lot  of  explanation. 


356        THE  HAND  OF.  THE  MIGHTY 

I  was  at  Bessie's  this  afternoon  and  a  Mrs. 
Cavendish  came  in.  Philip  and  Franz  know  her, 
but,  of  course,  you  don't."  This  last  was  to  Mar 
garet.  "Well,  we  were  talking  about  family. 
Mrs.  Cavendish  is  great  on  family — she  has  been 
separated  from  her  husband — that  is  part  of  the 
story,  and  it's  got  to  be  remembered."  Perkins 
came  to  a  stand-still.  "Now,  isn't  it  strange  that 
only  the  most  gifted  intellects  can  master  the  in 
tricacies  of  a  funny  story.  Really,  you  know,  I 
am  getting  it  all  wrong.  Oh,  yes,  this  is  it. 
Bessie  was  speaking  of  some  one — I  forget  who, 
luckily  that  doesn't  matter — and  Mrs.  Cavendish 
said — 'He  was  a  connection  of  mine  by  mar 
riage/  And  I  said — to  Bessie  of  course,  'I  sup 
pose  she  would  call  him  a  disconnection  by  di 


vorce  now/ 


Philip  turned  to  Margaret :  "Have  you  met 
Bessie  yet?" 

"No;  Ballard  refuses  to  bring  her  to  the  house." 

Perkins  shook  his  head.  "My  mother  and  Bessie 
don't  get  on." 

"Is  it  settled,  Perkins?"  Philip  asked  laugh 
ingly. 

"I  suppose  it  is.  You  see  a  fellow  hasn't  a 
ghost  of  a  chance  when  a  girl  and  her  mother 
regularly  set  out  to  marry  him.  When  that's  the 
case  he  might  just  as  well  beg  them  to  name  the 
day — for  they  are  bound  to  divide  the  spoils. 
Yes,"  with  placid  resignation,  "I  really  suppose 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  357 

I  am  as  good  as  done  for.  I  know  it  from  the 
way  their  cook  treats  me.  When  the  cook  treats 
you  with  a  deference  you  suppose  she  would  only 
bestow  on  the  heavenly  host,  you  may  be  alto 
gether  positive  your  intentions  have  been  dis 
cussed  in  the  kitchen  by  members  of  the  family." 

Philip  turned  from  Perkins  to  gaze  gloomily 
into  the  fire.  He  was  wondering,  as  he  had  many 
times  of  late,  how  he  would  ever  summon  the 
resolution  to  tell  Mr.  Gerard  of  his  altered  for 
tunes. 

Perkins,  surveying  the  faces  of  his  friends  with 
an  angelic  smile  upon  his  own  freckled  features, 
noted  his  abstraction. 

"What's  the  matter,  Philip?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing.  I  am  simply  in  the  depths  to-night. 
I  fear  I  am  not  very  desirable  to  have  about  in 
my  present  mood." 

"Is  it  the  work?"  asked  Margaret. 

"It's  everything!"  He  roused  himself  with  an 
effort.  "Utter  and  complete  dissatisfaction  with 
my  surroundings  for  one  thing — the  feeling  that 
I  am  dying  with  dry  rot.  I  suppose  to  you  it 
seems  fresh  and  interesting.  You  can't  fancy  what 
it  is  to  those  who  have  to  live  here.  The  nar 
rowness  and  meagerness  of  it  all!" 

"It's  not  so  bad,"  Perkins  said.  "The  town  has 
lots  of  intelligent  and  charming  people  and  if  you 
didn't  go  about  with  a  chip  on  your  shoulder, 
you  would  find  them  out." 


358         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  detest  intelligence,"  Philip  retorted.  "We 
have  filled  up  the  valleys  by  pulling  down  the 
mountains — when  we  get  a  dead  level  the  millen 
nium  will  be  reached.  All  that  will  be  left  for  the 
unfortunates  who  live  then  to  do,  will  be  to  lie 
down  and  long  for  death." 

"I  say,"  said  Perkins  interrupting  him,  "what's 
wrong  with  intelligence,  anyhow?" 

"Everything's  wrong  with  it.  I  can  respect 
ignorance.  As  with  any  deformity  it  has  its  own 
pathetic  dignity,  but  this  thin  spread  of  middle- 
class  intelligence,  which  is  one  part  enlightenment 
to  nine  parts  of  stupid  prejudice,  goes  far  to 
make  me  an  ardent  supporter  of  gaggings,  club 
bings  and  burnings  at  the  stake." 

Margaret  laughed:  "Is  intelligence  so  dreadful 
as  that?" 

"I  think  it  is "  then  he  stopped  abruptly, 

for  the  door  opened  and  Geoffrey  Ballard  ap 
peared  upon  the  threshold. 

With  an  attempt  at  dignity  he  moved  toward 
his  sister's  chair.  No  one  spoke.  The  surprise 
was  too  intense.  But  they  observed  that  he 
walked  as  though  tired. 

Margaret  shrank  from  him,  her  face  paling. 
Every  particle  of  happy  color  had  fled  from  it 
when  he  entered  the  room.  As  Geoff  bent  and 
kissed  her,  Franz  came  to  his  feet  with  what 
sounded  like  a  smothered  oath  upon  his  lips. 

After  the  perfunctory  greetings  with  his  sister 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN   HATH  359 

were  disposed  of,  Geoff  swung  around  languidly 
to  the  others.  First,  he  shook  hands  with  Per 
kins  with  much  cordiality.  Next  he  saluted 
Philip: 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  South 
ard,"  he  said. 

"Thanks  awfully,"  growled  Philip.  He  resented 
this  intrusion.  Besides  he  was  not  in  a  good 
humor.  He  didn't  propose  to  be  decent  to  a  man 
he  disliked.  That  was  asking  too  much. 

Silently  and  avoiding  the  danger  of  words, 
Franz  and  Geoff  acknowledged  each  other's  ex 
istence.  They  consoled  themselves  with  looking 
their  hate. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged,  Perkins  stood 
on  tiptoe  at  Philip's  side  and  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper:  "What  business  has  he  coming  here 
sticking  in  and  spoiling  our  fun!  Damn  him! 
Why  doesn't  he  stay  away?  I  should  like  to 
punch  his  head  for  him  jolly  good  and  well.  That's 
what  I  would!  I  came  mighty  near  doing  it,  too, 
when  he  shook  hands  with  me."  And  Perkins 
bristled  pugnaciously. 

Such  was  the  prodigal's  return  and  such  his 
welcome. 

Not  many  days  elapsed  before  there  dawned 
upon  him  a  premonition  of  what  had  happened 
during  his  absence,  and  a  chilly  and  uncomfort 
able  premonition  it  was. 

Most  assuredly  an  understanding  had  been  es- 


360        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

tablished  between  Margaret  and  the  German. 
Whether  it  was  love  or  a  deepened  friendship,  he 
could  not  decide  and  he  was  reluctant  to  inquire. 
Until  now  he  had  never  felt  the  least  wish  to 
familiarize  himself  with  the  emotions  that  swayed 
her,  and  he  did  not  know  just  how  to  begin. 

Geoff  finally  hit  upon  Perkins  as  a  likely  source 
of  information.  He  sought  him  out  and  asked  to 
be  enlightened  as  to  the  relationship  between  his 
sister  and  "that  Dutchman," — and  Perkins  in 
formed  him, — becoming  more  and  more  pleased 
as  gloom  spread  over  the  face  of  his  questioner. 
Geoff  was  seriously  alarmed.  But  if  any  one 
thought  that  after  selling  his  sister  at  so  great  an 
advantage  to  himself  as  he  had  done  he  was  going 
to  sit  supinely  down  and  not  endeavor  to  save  the 
purchase  money,  they  did  him  a  rank  injustice. 

He  began  to  urge  upon  his  sister  the  advisabil 
ity  of  their  being  domiciled  elsewhere.  He  didn't 
demand  any  radical  move  to  start  with,  simply 
that  they  obtain  a  house.  This  he  urged  on  the 
grounds  that  they  were  wearing  out  their  welcome 
at  the  Perkinses. 

"We  can't  impose  upon  their  good  nature  much 
longer,  you  know,"  he  said.  "And  since  you  are 
so  very  well  satisfied  here,  don't  you  think  we 
had  better  settle  ourselves  in  some  more  perma 
nent  fashion?" 

Margaret  demurred,  but  what  he  said  about  the 
Perkinses  made  an  impression  upon  her. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  361 

"I  think,"  Geoff  continued,  "you  would  enjoy 
a  home  of  your  own,  where  you  could  be  mis 
tress.  Russell  could,  of  course,  relieve  you  of 
every  burden.  She  is  fully  competent  to  order  a 
much  more  extensive  establishment  than  you  will 
care  to  maintain.  I  find  there  is  just  such  a 
place  as  you  would  fancy.  It  is  furnished  and 
ready  for  occupancy.  The  owner  is  holding  some 
political  office  in  Washington,  his  family  is  with 
him,  and  their  home  is  for  rent,  providing  a 
proper  tenant  can  be  found." 

He  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  explain  that 
he  had  learned  the  chief  reason  why  the  house 
stood  vacant  was  that  the  location  was  unhealth- 
ful,  especially  during  the  winter  months.  He 
was  positive  he  should  experience  no  ill  effects 
from  this  and  he  could  afford  to  take  a  few  risks 
with  his  sister. 

"I  wish  you  would  think  it  over,  Margaret," 
he  urged. 

"Why  can't  you  remain  here?"  said  Margaret. 
And  her  glance  wandered  wistfully  over  the  room. 
He  was  asking  a  great  deal.  She  was  very  happy. 

"I  don't  begin  to  have  your  knack  at  getting 
on  writh  people.  I  trust  you  will  not  speak  of 
this  until  you  know  what  you  will  do." 

All  this  while  Geoff  was  wonderfully  circum 
spect.  Never  before  had  he  been  so  considerate 
or  kind.  He  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  thor 
ough  reformation.  He  knew  if  he  did  not  accom- 


362         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

plish  what  he  was  striving  for  he  would  find  him 
self  face  to  face  with  ruin.  This  steadied  him 
astonishingly.  He  showed  no  inclination  to  leave 
and  for  the  moment  conquered  his  tendencies  to 
dissipation.  He  even  ceased  to  be  disagreeable 
to  either  Perkins  or  Philip,  but  he  made  it  his 
duty  to  see  that  the  interviews  his  sister  had 
alone  with  Becker  were  few  and  far  between — 
and  as  brief  as  possible. 

So  it  happened,  when  one  afternoon  in  December 
Margaret  announced  she  had  taken  the  lease  of  a 
house  and  intended  going  into  it  immediately, — 
that  Perkins  and  his  mother  listened  to  her  in 
horror-stricken  amazement.  They  could  scarcely  be 
lieve  it. 

"What!"  cried  Perkins:  "what!  leave  us,  you 
know !  A  house  of  your  own !  Why,  you  can 
have  all  of  this  one  if  you  will  only  include  mother 
and  me  in  the  bargain." 

"What  place  is  it?"  Mrs.  Perkins  asked. 

Margaret  turned  to  her  brother:  "What  did  you 
say  the  name  was,  Geoff?" 

Geoff  braced  himself  mentally  as  he  answered: 
"The  Springer  property." 

He  was  tolerably  sure  they  knew  the  house  and 
its  reputation.  Nor  was  he  in  error.  What  peo 
ple  in  a  town  of  ten  thousand  or  less  don't  know 
of  their  neighbors'  affairs  isn't  worth  mention 
ing.  They  knew  all  there  was  to  know  of  the 
house  in  question. 

"Why,  look  here!"  Perkins  stuttered,  his  words 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  363 

falling  over  one  another  in  their  haste  for  utter 
ance.  "You  can't  go  there,  you  know.  It  will 
never  do,  you  see.  The  house  is  damp  as  all  get 
out  from  cellar  to  garret,  and  it's  so  mildewy  in 
some  of  the  rooms  that  the  paper  won't  stick  to 
the  walls.  I  have  been  there  lots  of  times  and 
have  seen  it.  Why,  I  say,  you  should  just  see 
the  Springer  children.  They  are  sick  all  the  time. 
You  can't  go  there.  We  won't  let  you."  And  he 
fell  to  pacing  the  floor,  his  thumbs  tucked  in  his 
waistcoat,  as  was  his  wont  when  nervous  or  excited. 

Geoff  watched  him  from  between  narrowed 
lids.  There  was  a  steely  glitter  in  the  look,  and 
a  baleful  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
as  though  he  had  it  strong  within  him  to  express 
a  good  deal  more  than  was  policy  just  then. 

"You  have  been  most  kind  to  us,"  he  said;  "you 
overwhelm  us  with  your  goodness.  Still  I  know 
my  sister  will  be  better  contented  in  her  own 
home.  As  for  the  dampness  of  which  you  speak, 
I  will  see  to  that.  It  is  a  small  matter  and  can 
be  readily  overcome." 

"Aren't  you  contented  here?"  Mrs.  Perkins 
asked  quickly,  turning  to  Margaret.  "You  know 
we  will  do  anything  for  you — anything." 

Margaret  siezed  both  her  hands  and  clasped 
them  to  her  breast,  then  raised  them  to  her  lips 
while  her  eyes  glistened:  "I  have  never  been  so 
happy.  Not  in  all  my  life.  Oh,  you  are  so  dear 
and  kind!  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you  for  all 
you've  done  for  me!" 


364        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"We  can  not  possibly  add  to  the  sense  of  grati 
tude  beneath  which  we  are  already  struggling," 
Geoff  interposed.  He  spoke  coldly  and  insolently. 
He  wished  to  stop  this  burst  of  sentiment  or  else 
it  might  go  to  dangerous  lengths.  He  succeeded 
in  mortally  offending  Perkins,  who  said  hotly  and 
with  the  bottled-up  acrimony  of  many  days  in 
his  tones : 

"Why  do  you  cut  in  when  my  mother  and  Mar 
garet  are  talking!  You  are  always  cutting  in 
where  you  haven't  any  right  to." 

This  outburst  quieted  things  down  for  the  mo 
ment  and  no  more  was  said  about  Madame  Den- 
nee's  plans  for  the  future,  but  in  two  minds  at 
least  the  thought  of  her  pending  departure  was 
uppermost. 

When  Geoff  quitted  the  library  a  few  minutes 
later,  Mrs.  Perkins,  excusing  herself  to  Margaret, 
followed  promptly  in  his  wake,  and  at  once  re 
turned  to  the  charge  with  unabated  zeal. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  that  child  there  and 
selfishly  jeopardize  her  health?  Are  you?  An 


swer  me." 


"That's  exactly  what  I  am  going  to  do,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Perkins,  and  the  sooner  the  better,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  so." 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Perkins,  "you  are  the  most 
contemptible — the  most  thoroughly  contemptible 
of  living  creatures!  That's  what  I  think  of  you, 
and  I  am  the  easier  for  having  said  it!" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  365 

"Don't  you  think,  my  dear  Mrs.  Perkins,  that 
you  rather  strain  the  case?"  Geoff  retorted. 
"After  all,  one's  own  business  is  about  the  only 
business  one  should  undertake." 

Mrs.  Perkins  flushed,  but  she  put  a  check  upon 
herself.  "I  positively  decline  to  quarrel  with  you. 
I  don't,  for  I  see  through  you.  I  won't  quarrel 
no  matter  what  you  do  and  you  needn't  try  to 
make  me." 

"Your  conception  of  what  constitutes  incom 
patibility  would  prove  entertaining,"  Geoff  re 
plied.  "I  have  the  impression  that  that  stage  of 
disagreement  has  already  been  reached.  The 
only  course  open  for  my  sister  is  to  leave." 

Mrs.  Perkins  fairly  gasped  at  the  deftness  with 
which  he  made  their  dislike  of  him  embrace  Mar 
garet  as  well,  but  being  of  an  emotional  tempera 
ment  she  trusted  herself  to  speak  no  further  and 
retired  to  her  own  rooms  where  she  could  weep 
in  solitude. 

And  so  it  was  decided  that  Margaret  should 
leave  the  Perkinses. 

When  the  day  came — and  it  came  quickly,  as 
Geoff's  patience  was  all  but  exhausted — she 
wept  as  she  passed  out  through  the  wide  doors 
that  had  opened  so  hospitably  to  receive  her. 

"We  shall  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  shall 
we  not?"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Perkins.  "You  will 
come  to  me  whenever  you  can?  I  fear  the  cold 
will  keep  me  somewhat  confined,  but  you  won't 


666        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

mind  it  as  I  shall,  and  you  will  come  often  to 
see  me?" 

Perkins  and  his  mother  went  down  to  see  that 
she  was  properly  installed  in  her  home,  and  then 
sadly  took  their  leave  of  her  just  as  the  night 
came  on.  Geoff,  being  inordinately  elated  by  his 
success,  was  absent,  celebrating  his  victory  in  a 
spree. 

In  spite  of  the  fires  and  a  superheated  furnace 
below  stairs,  the  house  had  a  musty  odor  and  the 
big  rooms  held  a  damp  chill  that  could  not  be 
warmed  out  of  them. 

Finally  Geoff  came  in,  with  unsteady  step  and 
bloodshot  eyes,  to  add  what  he  could  to  the  load 
resting  on  the  poor  little  shoulders,  which  for 
years  had  been  so  weighted  down  with  care  and 
weariness.  He  found  her  lonely,  miserable  and  in 
tears.  This  exhibition  of  weakness,  as  he  termed 
it,  he  took  in  very  bad  part. 

The  initial  dinner  was  a  meal  long  remembered, 
with  Geoff,  stupid  and  maudlin  from  too  much 
drink,  constantly  going  to  sleep  and  as  constantly 
waking  to  growl  his  complaints. 

When  it  was  finished,  he  took  himself  from  his 
sister's  sight,  while  Margaret  waited  for  Perkins 
and  Franz  to  come  as  they  had  said  they  would. 

Eight  o'clock  brought  them  and  the  evening 
was  passed  pleasantly  enough. 

Madame  Dennee  had  been  suffering  from  a 
cold  for  some  days,  and  the  next  morning  she  was 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  367 

quite  ill.  Her  brother  took  no  notice  of  this,  and 
for  several  days  did  nothing  but  press  forward 
to  the  goal  at  which  he  aimed.  He  pursued  his 
former  tactics  with  the  utmost  industry,  seeing 
that  his  sister  never  had  a  moment  alone  with  her 
friends;  and  wishing  to  discourage  their  devotion, 
was  aggressive  and  rude  to  such  an  extent  that 
Philip  made  just  one  call  on  Margaret  and  then 
in  unmistakable  language  announced  his  intention 
of  not  repeating  the  experiment. 

"I  don't  intend  to  walk  half-way  across  the 
town  simply  for  the  delirious  joy  of  letting  that 
fellow  insult  me!"  And  he  kept  to  his  word. 

To  be  sure,  with  Perkins  and  Franz,  it  was 
different.  They  were  blind  to  affronts  and  proof 
against  the  insufferable.  For  Margaret's  sake 
they  were  willing  to  endure  the  unendurable,  but 
the  ordeal  was  too  much  for  them  to  live  down 
without  an  inward  revolt  at  least. 

Franz  became  habitually  morose  and  sullen. 
Perkins  waxed  shockingly  profane  and  his  mother 
spent  most  of  her  time  on  the  verge  of  tears; 
and  all  this  while  Margaret's  condition  grew 
rapidly  worse. 

When  brother  and  sister  were  alone  it  was  the 
eternal  harping  on  the  one  theme.  Geoff  wished 
her  to  go  East  with  him — anywhere.  He  gave 
her  no  peace.  Morning,  noon  and  night,  he  stuck 
to  the  dreary  round  of  argument  and  objection. 

This   continued   for   a   week.     Margaret's    cold 


368        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

developed  into  an  alarming  cough.  She  was  con 
fined  to  her  room  and  could  see  no  one  but  Mrs. 
Perkins  and  Russell. 

Having  space  for  deliberation,  Perkins  was 
seized  with  a  brilliant  conception:  a  project  that 
anticipated  nothing  less  than  the  getting  of  Geoff 
drunk  and  starting  him  on  what  Perkins  called 
"a  protracted  spree." 

He  reasoned  that  a  man  of  his  cousin's  inclina 
tions  could  only  hold  up  so  far  in  combating  the 
unholy  charms  of  a  properly  presented  tempta 
tion. 

But  Perkins  was  not  called  upon  to  assume  the 
tempter's  role.  Geoff  accomplished  his  downfall 
himself. 

There  was  one  fatal  quality  in  all  his  plotting. 
He  invariably  gave  out  before  the  final  blow 
was  dealt. 

He  now  exemplified  this  by  going  away  when 
there  was  most  cause  for  his  remaining.  He 
could  not  stand  the  quiet  longer.  He  would  have 
one  bout,  he  told  himself, — just  one.  When  it 
was  over  with  he  would  return  and  Margaret 
should  go  with  him  where  he  pleased.  He  felt 
almost  safe  in  leaving:  she  was  so  ill. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  369 


"Then,"  said  Philip  shortly,  "if  I  understand 
you  aright,  you  wish  me  to  discontinue  my 
visits?" 

Mr.  Gerard  was  rather  taken  aback  by  the  di 
rectness  with  which  Philip  put  it.  To  be  sure 
that  was  what  it  amounted  to,  but — "You  see, 
you  keep  other  men  at  a  distance :  you  take  up 
most  of  the  leisure  she  has  to  devote  to  society. 
I  don't  mean  to  be  hard.  I  trust  you  appreciate 
the  delicacy  of  my  position — the  peculiarity  of  it. 
I  want  to  be  fair  to  you  and  at  the  same  time 
just  to  Barbara.  It  occurs  to  me  that  I  can  only 

accomplish  this  by  having  you "  He  was  very 

much  mixed — very  red  and  very  miserable. 

The  cause  of  all  his  annoyance  stood  before 
him — cool  and  collected,  but  it  was  the  calm  of 
desperation. 

The  comfort  of  knowing  this  was,  however,  de 
nied  to  Mr.  Gerard.  He  took  up  the  tangled 
thread  of  his  discourse.  "My  dear  boy,  you  must 
know  I  don't  want  to  seem  hard" — getting  a  fresh 
start — "I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  happi 
ness,  but  where  my  daughter  is  concerned  I  must 
be  just.  I  can't  be  remiss  in  my  duty  there.  Now 
I  leave  it  to  you — to  your  sense  of  fairness.  You 
know  what  I  think — do  what  you  consider  right." 

"I  suppose  you  can  not  understand  just  how  I 
got  rid  of  my  money,"  Philip  said  grimly. 


370        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  confess  I  can't,"  Mr.  Gerard  replied  ner 
vously.  "Your  admission  has  been  a  great  sur 
prise  to  me.  It  was  only  a  month  or  so  ago  that 
you  had  quite  a  large  sum  saved  and  now  you  in 
form  me  it's  all  gone,  and  you  don't  tell  me 
where." 

"I  can  not,  Mr.   Gerard." 

"Of  course — of  course.  That  is  your  business. 
I  appreciate  that — I  ask  for  no  explanation — 
and  I  do  like  your  frankness  in  coming  to  me  at 
once,"  but  there  was  small  favor  in  the  glance 
he  bestowed  upon  Philip.  "If  it's  gone — why 
"  he  came  to  a  stop  again. 

"It  is  gone.  Every  penny  of  it."  Philip  said 
relentlessly. 

"It's  very  unusual,  very." 

"And  you  had  rather  I  slow  up  on  my  visits?" 

"I  leave  it  entirely  with  you,  as  I  said  before. 
I  don't  understand  and  I  am  not  satisfied.  I — 
really  it  may  be  as  well  for  you  to  keep  away. 
But  do  whatever  you  think  proper." 

"You  put  it  to  me  in  such  shape  that  there  is 
just  one  thing  I  can  do,  and  that  is  keep  away 
and  stay  away." 

"My  dear  boy,  I " 

Philip  cut  him  short  by  turning  on  his  heel. 
"You  have  no  objection  to  my  calling  this  after 
noon?" 

"Oh,  no.  Not  at  all.  It's  right  that  you 
should." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  371 

"Thank  you,"  said  Philip,  and  took  himself  off, 
leaving  Mr.  Gerard  puffing  and  agitated  in  the 
door  of  his  office. 

Philip  was  glad  that  he  had  carried  off  the 
honors  of  the  interview  where  calmness  and  dis- 
passion  were  involved,  but  he  knew  that  the  tri 
umph  was  a  small  one,  and  that  Mr.  Gerard's 
turn  would  come  later,  when  he  himself  could 
but  compress  his  lips  and  suffer. 

He  was  thinking  of  this  and  bitter  revolt  was 
in  his  heart  when  he  presented  himself  to  Bar 
bara.  His  face  told  plainly  what  he  felt.  Indeed, 
it  was  so  apparent  that  she  silently  followed  him 
into  the  parlor. 

He  threw  his  hat  down  upon  a  chair  and  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  room  looking  at  her,  wonder 
ing  how  it  would  be  possible  to  exist,  deprived 
of  her  companionship. 

"What  is  it,  Philip?  Why  don't  you  tell  me?" 
she  at  last  found  courage  to  ask. 

"It's  what  I  have  known  would  happen  all 
along.  Your  father " 

"What  has  my  father  done?"  she  interrupted 
him. 

"He   has   told   me   I   must   stop   coming  here." 

Barbara's  eyes  blazed.  Her  diminutive  figure 
was  drawn  wrathfully  up  to  its  fullest  height. 
"Has  he  dared  to  do  that — has  he  dared!" 

"I  felt  in  honor  bound  to  tell  him  I  had  been 
compelled  to  spend  my  sa\ings.  He  said — he  was 


372         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

very  kind — that  a  continuation  of  my  attentions 
would  compromise  you,  and  since  my  future  was 
very  uncertain " 

"My  life  is  mine — it  belongs  to  me !"  she  inter 
posed.  "And  if  I  choose  to  give  it  to  you,  it's 
mine  to  give.  I  know  what  I  need  better  than 
he  does." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  told  him  how  the  money 
went.  He  evidently  attributes  my  poverty  to 
wild  and  reckless  extravagance.  I  could  see  it 
completely  finished  me  off  in  his  estimation.  I 
wish  I  could  have  told — but  I  couldn't.  I  can't 
even  tell  you." 

"It's  nobody's  affair  but  your  own,  and  if  we 
are  satisfied  I  don't  see  what  it  is  to  him." 

"Just  the  same,  Barbara,  he  has  made  it  his 
affair.  He  is  your  father,  and  it  is  his  privilege." 

Her  little  foot  tapped  the  floor  angrily.  His 
submission  offended  her. 

"It's  all  right,   Barbara." 

"It's  not  all  right,"  she  burst  out.  "Is  it  all 
right  that  our  happiness  should  be  wrecked?" 

"I  don't  say  that.  I  refer  to  his  requesting  me 
to  cease  coming  here.  He  evidently  regards  me 
as  not  the  proper  sort  of  person." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"There  is  but  one  thing  I  can  do." 

"And  that?" 

"Respect  his  wishes." 

"If  you  do,  what  is  going  to  become  of  me?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  373 

Philip  put  his  hand  to  his  aching  head.  That 
was  more  than  he  could  tell.  He  had  thought  of 
it,  too.  His  personal  pain  and  anxiety  gave  him 
no  concern.  He  had  become  accustomed  to  it,  but 
it  would  be  so  hard  for  her.  She  had  not  his 
training  in  disappointment.  What  could  he  do? 

"What  will  become  of  me?"  she  repeated,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"As  soon  as  I  have  the  money  it  will  be  as  it 
was  before.  The  separation  will  be  but  tempor 
ary — unless  you  forget  me." 

"I  shall  never  forget  you.     I  love  you." 

"Then  as  soon  as  I  succeed  even  partially,  I 
shall  come  back  to  you.  I  shall  work  so  hard,  it 
shan't  be  for  long.  I  will  succeed."  And  he  set 
his  teeth.  "I  know  I  shall  and  it  will  be  no  ordi 
nary  success  when  it  does  come.  You  have  faith 
in  me?" 

"Yes!  yes!  but  that's  so  far  off!  Think  of  the 
time  we  have  already  waited." 

"I  know,  dear,  but  I  am  making  every  effort. 
I  know,  too,  that  despite  all  his  efforts  a  man 
may  fail — absolutely — and  through  no  fault  of 
his  own.  He  may  get  down  and  never  rise, 
though  he  struggle  ever  so  hard.  There  is  a  sav 
age  remorseless  quality  to  life,  a  cruel  indiffer 
ence  to  work  and  worth.  This  risk  we  are  com 
pelled  to  take.  In  any  business  or  profession  it 
would  be  the  same.  It  does  not  apply  alone  to 
one  who  thinks  he  can  write — — " 


374        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

He  was  striding  back  and  forth  across  the 
room.  "Yet  I  can't  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
I  am  to  be  one  of  the  failures,  all  I  want  is  time — 
time!  I  know  I  can  do  so  much.  You  must  have 
faith  in  me,  Barbara!" 

"It  has  been  so  long,"  she  said  sadly,  going  to 
his  side  and  clasping  both  her  hands  about  his 
arm,  "and  I  am  afraid.  I  don't  quite  know  of 
what — but  I  am  afraid." 

"Can't  you  be  brave  just  a  little  longer — just 
a  little  longer?" 

"I  try  to  be — I  really  do,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"I  am  afraid  he  wants  me  to  marry  Mr.  Shel- 
den.  He  does  not  say  so,  but  I  know."  And  she 
began  to  cry  again,  clinging  to  Philip  the  while. 
"I  know  it!  I  know  it!  and  unless  you  save  me 
I  shall  be  forced  into  it.  I  can't  stand  black 
looks  and  constant  coercion.  I  shall  yield.  I 
know  I  shall,  and  my  whole  life  will  be  ruined." 

"So  that's  it,  is  it?"  Philip's  voice  was  hoarse 
and  dry.  "So  that's  it?  That's  what  it  signifies? 
He  wants  to  get  me  out  of  the  road,  does  he?" 
And  after  a  brief  pause:  "Do  you  like  him  in  the 
least,  Barbara?" 

"I  hate  him." 

"He  has  money  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"It's  nothing  to  me.     I  can  only  care  for  you." 

"Has  your  father  made  any  positive  statement 
of  his  preference,  Barbara?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  375 

She  shook  her  head.  "Of  course  he  does  not 
speak  of  it,  but  I  know." 

"Well,  I'll  go  in  for  work  harder  than  ever, 
dear — we  need  not  despair,  for  we  are  sure  of  each 
other." 

"But— but— if  I  don't  see  you " 

"Can't  you  keep  your  love  alive  and  not  see 
me?" 

"I  suppose  so,  but  you  are  so  different  from  me. 
You  don't  feel  the  same." 

"I  feel  with  my  whole  soul,  Barbara.  Can  I  do 
more?" 

"It  breaks  my  heart  to  think  I  am  not  to  see 
you."  She  glanced  up  into  his  face.  "Not  to  see 
you  at  all — why  how  shall  I  manage  to  endure 
it?"  Her  eyes  grew  wide,  filled  with  a  pathetic  grief 
that  made  him  desperate.  "And  now  scarcely  a 
day  passes,  that  I  do  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  you." 

"It  can't  be  for  long,  Barbara." 

"It  may  be  forever."  This  was  said  in  a  stifled 
voice. 

"It's  not  as  if  I  were  going  away — not  as  if  I 
were  to  leave  the  town.  We  shall  see  each  other 
constantly." 

"It's  worse  than  if  you  were  going  away.  It's 
a  great  deal  worse.  Then  I  could  make  up  my 
mind  to  it  and  could,  I  suppose,  bear  it  somehow." 

"Dear,"  he  spoke  softly,  "dearest,  please  look 
up.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Can't  you  listen  to  me? 
Please,  dear,  it's  not  so  bad.  It  might  be  worse." 


376        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"It's  bad  enough!"  without  lifting  her  head 
from  where  it  rested  upon  his  arm.  "It  couldn't 
be  worse.  I  couldn't  suffer  more." 

"Can't  you  be  hopeful?     Can't  you   try?" 

"I  do  try." 

"It  is  coming  nearer  all  the  while.  I  am  making 
money — I  shall  make  more.  Don't  you  believe 
in  my  ability?" 

"It's  not  that.  I  am  confident  of  the  future,  but 
the  present  is  so  horrible,  with  all  manner  of 
doubt.  Do  you,"  looking  up  and  letting  her  glance 
meet  his  for  a  moment,  "do  you  honestly  think 
it  will  ever  be  as  we  hope?" 

"Yes.  It  can  not  be  otherwise.  It  only  means 
patience — only  a  little  waiting." 

"Tell  me  what  papa  said." 

"He  asked  me  to  stop  coming  here  until  such 
time  as  I  am  in  a  position  to  be  accepted  form 
ally  as  your  intended  husband." 

"And  when  will  that  be?"  shaking  her  head. 

"It  can't  be  so  very  far  off  and  it  comes  closer 
with  every  day.  If  I  could  only  give  you  some 
of  my  hope — if  I  only  could!" 

"You  do— but— " 

"I  do,  but  it  fails  in  its  mission." 

"Tell  me  what  he  said." 

"It  all  amounted  to  this.  I  must  forego  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you,  except  very  infrequently." 

"Is  it  good-by  you  are  saying  to  me?  Is  it? 
Is  it?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  377 

"I  fear  it  is.  You  must  forgive  me,  but  I  have 
to  show  some  little  pride,  and  there  is  but  one 
course  open  to  me.  It's  not  choice,  but  necessity 
that  influences  me  in  my  decision." 

"Does  he  want  to  make  me  hate  him!     I  shall." 

She  gave  way  utterly  to  her  emotions  and 
Philip  did  the  best  he  could  to  soothe  her  as  she 
stood  within  the  protecting  circle  of  his  arms. 

"I  have  exhausted  my  patience.  I  am  tired — 
tired.  How  do  I  know  it  will  ever  come.  It  has 
been  years  already,"  she  said  at  last. 

"It  is  no  more  doubtful  than  anything  else 
would  be.  I  am  putting  forth  all  my  energy." 

"I  am  tired.     I  am  tired." 

"I  have  this  to  reproach  myself  with.  I  thought 
in  the  beginning  success  would  come  sooner.  I 
have  kept  on  and  on,  and  now  I  am  as  far  from 
it  as  ever.  It  has  been  four  years,  Barbara,  four 
years.  I  am  so  sorry,  dear,  so  sorry." 

"If  you  go  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  Some 
thing  will  happen.  I  shall  be  driven  into  some 
thing  dreadful.  I  shall  be  at  papa's  mercy,  and  I 
haven't  any  strength  of  character.  He  can  do 
what  he  likes  when  you  are  gone,  and  I  shall 
give  in.  I  always  do." 

Her  whole  attitude  was  one  of  weak  complaint. 
It  was  fast  forcing  Philip  to  the  verge  of  mad 
ness.  As  if  she  divined  what  his  thoughts  were, 
she  said:  "You  don't  respect  me.  You  think  I 
don't  amount  to  anything." 


378        THE  HAND  OK  THE  MIGHTY 

"I  love  you!"  he  said  gravely.  "And  now  I 
must  go/' 

"You  are  not  going! — not  yet! — not  yet!" 

"I  shall  write  you  every  day  when  I  don't  hap 
pen  to  see  you,  so  you  will  know  how  I  get  on." 

"Yes!  yes!   but   are  you   going?" 

"I  must  go  sometime  and  it's  better  over  with. 
We  shall  write  each  other  and  we  shall  meet  quite 
often  at  various  places.  I  shall  go  where  I  know 
you  will  be." 

She  was  crying  violently. 

"You  must  not  leave  me!  You  must  not, 
Philip!" 

But  he  moved  slowly  to  the  door. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  hard  I  shall  work.  Just 
be  brave  and  good  as  you  have  been  from  the 
start  and  it  will  come  out  all  right." 

"I  can't  wait  forever — and  I  need  you  now." 

"You  will  have  to,  dearest." 

"Doesn't  it  make  you  furious?" 

"What,  Barbara?" 

"Furious,  that  he  can  interfere  with  us.  It's 
our  life — our  love.  We  only  ask  to  be  left  alone. 
Oh— I  can't  bear  it!" 

"I'm  afraid  we  must  bear  it  for  a  while.  We 
won't  be  altogether  separated — we  will  see  each 
other  now  and  then!" 

"No!  no!  what  will  such  meetings  be — with 
people  about — people  who  will  stare  at  us  with 
silly  senseless  curiosity!" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  379 

"Good-by  for  the  present,  dear — for  to-day." 

"No— no!" 

"We  shall  meet  often.     Try  to  think  of  that." 

"I  am  not  brave  and  I  invariably  give  in.  He 
knows  it.  I  shall  have  no  peace  if  you  go  like 
this.  Promise  me  you  will  come  back!" 

"I  can  not,  Barbara." 

"Then  the  blame  for  whatever  follows  falls 
on  you.  You  go  willingly." 

"You  are  unjust." 

"You  go  willingly,"  she  insisted.  "You  desert 
me.  You  leave  me  for  him  to  torture  into  doing 
what  he  wants!  Is  it  nothing  to  you?" 

"I  love  you,"  he  answered  simply. 

"And  if  we  drift  apart?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  How  can  we 
drift  apart?" 

"People   do." 

"Are  we  like  them?" 

"Are  we?" 

"I  thought  we  were  not,"  he  said. 

"Why   should  you   think  that?"   she   answered. 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  we  are  the  same  as 
the  rest.  Perhaps  I  only  imagine  the  difference." 

"You  are  going?"  she  said  in  alarm  as  he  moved 
toward  the  door. 

"Yes,  Barbara." 

But  Barbara  threw  herself  down  into  a  chair 
and  commenced  to  cry  afresh.  This  drew  Philip 
back  to  her  side  in  an  instant. 


380         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Won't  you  say  good-by,  Barbara,  just  for  the 
present?  Won't  you  say  good-by,  dear?"  He 
sought  to  remove  the  hand  she  held  before  her 
face. 

She  gave  him  no  answer  and  he  turned  from 
her,  at  first  irresolute  and  then  with  more  deci 
sion,  for  his  mind  was  made  up.  After  all,  her 
sense  of  resentment  would  lighten  her  grief  for 
the  moment.  It  would  be  easier  to  bear  because 
of  it. 

He  stepped  into  the  hall,  the  door  closed,  and 
Barbara  heard  his  footsteps  growing  fainter.  He 
was  gone ! 

Curled  up  in  the  easy  chair  she  sobbed  out  her 
sorrow  and  anger,  for  it  was  a  mingling  of  both. 
At  last  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  about. 
She  was  still  sobbing  brokenly. 

Suddenly  she  sat  erect.  It  was  growing  late. 
She  remembered  that  her  father  was  to  bring 
Mr.  Shelden  home  with  him  to  tea. 

"I  hate  him!"  she  thought.  "I  hate  everybody, 
but  I  shall  have  to  see  him  and  be  agreeable,  and 
I  suppose  I  look  like  a  perfect  fright  with  my 
eyes  all  red.  Of  course  while  he  is  here,  I  shall 
have  to  pretend  that  I  am  enjoying  myself,  and 
my  head  hurts  and  I  am  miserable.  I  want 
Philip,  and  no  one  else !" 

In  proof  of  which  she  commenced  to  weep. 

And  so  for  an  hour  or  more  she  lay  curled  up 
in  the  chair,  a  doleful  little  heap. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  381 


XI 


"I  told  them  they  must  have  a  doctor/'  Per 
kins  explained  to  Franz,  "and  in  spite  of  my 
mother's  objections  I  called  one  in.  Mother  has 
been  dosing  her  for  a  week  now." 

Young  Perkins  and  his  mother  practically  lived 
with  Margaret,  now  that  Geoff  was  gone,  and  it 
was  on  the  second  day  of  their  installment  as 
members  of  her  household,  when  Perkins,  as 
serting  himself  in  defiance  of  the  paternal  man 
date,  announced  his  intention  of  summoning  a 
physician — "Right  off,  and  with  no  more  depend 
ence  on  luck,"  by  which  it  is  to  be  inferred  that 
his  mother's  remedies  did  not  inspire  him  with 
much  confidence. 

"He  is  with  her?"  Franz  inquired,  having  just 
come  in. 

"Yes,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  interference,  I 
am  certain  my  mother  would  have  kept  on 
dosing  Margaret  with  her  nasty  home-made  con 
coctions  until  doomsday.  Poor  Margaret  would 
never  have  rebelled :  she  would  have  swallowed 
the  stuff  until  it  killed  her  rather  than  wound  my 
mother  by  showing  lack  of  faith." 

At  this  juncture  they  were  joined  by  the  doctor, 
a  gray  puffy  man,  reeking  of  stale  tobacco  smoke 
and  staler  drugs,  who  took  the  ills  flesh  is  heir  to 
as  a  personal  grievance. 


382         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Well?"   Perkins   interrogated   him. 

The  doctor  emitted  a  sound  that  could  have 
been  either  a  grunt  or  groan:  "It  won't  do,"  he 
said  gloomily;  "she  must  be  sent  South.  She 
has  not  the  stamina  for  this  climate.  It's  using 
her  up.  Unless  something  is  done  she  will  not 
live  through  the  winter,  I'll  stake  my  reputation." 

"Then  she  should  go  to  Florida?"  Perkins  ques 
tioned. 

"I  said  she  must  be  sent  South, — if  you  are 
interested  in  keeping  her  alive — and  I  suppose 
you  are." 

"Good  lord,  yes!"  Perkins  gasped. 

"I  don't  say  her  illness  is  critical  at  its  present 
stage,  but  if  you  are  going  to  do  what  I  recom 
mend,  don't  put  it  off.  I  don't  want  to  be  blamed. 
Good  night." 

He  snorted  angrily  at  the  inoffensive  Perkins, 
picked  up  his  hat  and  medicine-case  and  departed, 
leaving  the  young  men  staring  apprehensively  at 
each  other. 

Perkins  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  the 
doctor  had  gone.  "He's  a  confounded  fool ! 
That's  what  he  is.  If  he  had  waited  a  minute,  I'd 
have  said  so.  He  doesn't  have  to  scare  us  to 
death." 

Franz  was  busy  with  his  thoughts.  How  could 
she  go  and  how  could  she  stay  threatened  by 
danger?  The  problem  swung  between  the  two 
alternatives  and  refused  to  be  solved. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  383 

Suddenly  Perkins  cried  joyously:  "I've  got  it, 
Franz !  You  must  marry  her  right  off  and  take 
her  South  yourself — otherwise  she  will  be  left  to 
the  mercy  of  her  brother.  You  love  her, — I  know 
all  about  it,  old  fellow.  I  saw  it  by  accident  and  I 
take  just  stacks  of  interest  in  you  young  people.'* 

He  put  his  hand  on  Franz's  shoulder.  His  de 
meanor  was  both  patronizing  and  affectionate. 
He  looked  as  cupid  might,  grown  to  sturdy  man 
hood,  so  thrilled  was  he  by  his  purpose. 

"If  you  are  the  least  diffident,  I'll  adjust  it.  I'd 
dearly  love  to,  and  won't  it  be  a  jolly  little  earth 
quake  for  Mr.  Geoffrey  Ballard, — won't  it?"  And 
he  hopped  around  gleefully,  proving  there  can  be 
two  good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  a  man's  acts, 
namely — to  please  himself,  and  to  annoy  his  fel 
low:  and  who  shall  determine  which  is  sweeter? 

Franz  had  felt  his  heart  leap  at  the  suggestion, 
but  what  would  Margaret  say? 

Perkins  plunged  ahead  vigorously:  "What  will 
you  do;  will  you  wait  for  Geoff  to  come  and  spoil 
it  all?" 

Before  Franz  could  answer  Margaret  herself 
entered  the  room,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Perkins. 
Instinctively  they  turned  to  her.  Never  had  she 
looked  so  slight  and  fragile. 

With  an  anxious  throb  of  his  heart  Franz  started 
toward  her  with  outstretched  hands.  Perkins  was 
no  fool.  He  stepped  into  the  hall,  motioning  his 
mother  to  follow.  Then  he  shut  the  door,  re- 


384        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

marking:  "I  guess  they  would  appreciate  being  by 
themselves,"  and  he  winked  with  peculiar  em 
phasis. 

Left  with  Margaret,  Franz  arranged  a  chair 
for  her.  She  watched  his  rather  clumsy  placing 
of  wraps  and  pillows  with  an  amused  smile. 

"You  will  make  a  baby  of  me,  and  I  shall  be  a 
bother  always,"  she  said.  She  was  pathetically 
grateful  for  the  slightest  display  of  love  or  de 
votion. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Margaret?"  Franz  asked. 

Margaret  reclined  languidly  in  her  seat.  The 
excitement  of  getting  down-stairs  had  passed  and 
she  felt  tired  and  weak. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,  Franz,"  she  said.  "I 
haven't  seen  you  in  days.  To-night  I  insisted 
that  they  should  let  me  dress,  I  wished  to  see  you 
so  much." 

"What  did  the  doctor  tell  you,  Margaret?" 

"That  I  must  go  South,  but"— hastily— "I  can 
not  do  that — I  can  not  leave  you !" 

"But,  if  it  is  for  the  best,  dear?" 

"Surely  it  can  not  be  best  for  me  to  be  cut  off 
from  my  friends,  when  they  are  so  few — "  She 
spoke  in  a  frightened  voice,  as  if  appalled  at  the 
idea.  "I  should  simply  die  of  loneliness."  She 
glanced  up  at  him  appealingly,  her  lips  quivering. 
"You  would  not  have  me  go,  would  you,  Franz? 
I  am  such  a  coward.  What  would  become  of  me, 
without  you?" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  385 

"I  shall  go  with  you,  Margaret,  if  I  may,"  he 
said  softly.  "It  all  rests  with  you,  dear.  The 
grief  of  your  going,  if  you  went  alone,  would  be 
quite  as  hard  for  me  to  bear  as  for  you." 

For  a  space  she  was  silent,  then  her  reserve 
gave  way  entirely. 

"If  I  go,  Franz,  it  must  be  with  you.  I  can 
not  leave  myself  open  to  my  brother's  persecutions 
— I  can  not  endure  them!  The  doctor  said — but 
he  told  you,  too?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wish  to  live" — clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands  nervously.  "I  never  before  minded  what 
happened  to  me,  life  is  so  hard — but  your  love 
has  changed  everything.  I  wish  to  live  for  your 
sake — not  for  mine." 

"Are  you  willing  to  trust  yourself  to  me?" 
Franz  gently  interposed. 

Margaret's  head  half  rested  on  the  chair-back, 
half  upon  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes  were  closed 
and  the  hands  he  held  within  his  own  burned 
feverishly.  At  last  she  whispered: 

"Take  me  with  you.  It  is  best  we  go  together. 
I  am  sick — sick — and  he  is  killing  me.  If  you 
would  have  me,  you  must  take  me  now.  .  .  ." 

The  next  day  as  Philip  was  at  work,  Franz  en 
tered  his  room  unannounced.  Seeing  who  it  was, 
Philip  put  down  his  pen,  turning  from  the  pile  of 
manuscript  over  which  he  had  been  toiling. 

"Are  you  busy,  Philip?"   Franz  asked. 


386         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Not   very.     Why?" 

"Because  I  should  like  a  moment's  talk  with 
you." 

Philip  nodded. 

"Just  knock  those  books  off  a  corner  of  the 
bed  and  sit  down — dump  them  on  the  floor.  What 
is  it,  old  fellow?" 

Franz,  having  complied  with  the  suggestion, 
said:  "You  know  that  Margaret  is  ill?" 

"I  knew  she  had  a  cold.  I  hope  it's  not  seri 
ous." 

"Her  physician  advises  that  she  spend  the  re 
mainder  of  the  winter  in  the  South.  This  she  will 
do  as  soon  as  she  recovers  sufficiently." 

Again  Philip  nodded. 

"It's  very  unexpected,  isn't  it?  I  should  con 
sider  it  risky." 

"She  is  not  to  go  alone." 

"Oh,  I  presume  Mrs.  Perkins  is  to  go  with 
her?" 

"It  would  not  be  paying  much  of  a  compliment 
to  your  intelligence  if  I  thought  to  surprise  you 
by  saying  that  I  love  Margaret." 

"Precious  little,"  Philip  admitted  laconically. 

"Well,  I  shall  surprise  you.  We  are  to  be 
married  immediately.  The  situation  is  so  grave 
as  to  permit  of  no  delay.  Her  health  and  the 
probable  reappearance  of  her  brother  make  it 
necessary." 

"Bless   me  I   I   never  figured   on   this."     Philip 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  387 

looked  his  amazement.  "What  will  you  do  then, 
Franz?" 

"When  she  is  able  to  travel,  I  suppose  it  means 
Florida,  or  the  Bermudas." 

Philip  had  risen  and  gathered  himself  together 
while  making  the  circuit  of  the  room. 

"I  declare,  I  didn't  congratulate  you,  did  I  ? 
To  be  sure,  old  fellow,  the  thought  of  losing  you 
is  not  agreeable." 

"If  you  will,  Philip,  you  can  be  of  great  service 
to  me." 

"I  was  about  to  volunteer,"  said  Philip  heartily, 
"but  you  swept  me  squarely  off  my  feet." 


On  the  authority  of  Perkins — "It  was  a  mighty 
jolly  wedding." 

The  ceremony  was  performed  in  Margaret's 
own  room  and  during  its  progress  she  lay  upon 
a  lounge,  looking  as  fair  as  the  lilies-of-the-valley 
in  her  hands,  which  Perkins  had  given  her,  after 
liberally  bedewing  them  with  his  tears  dropped 
in  sentimental  secrecy. 

The  sun  was  sinking  far  across  the  white  fields, 
and  the  gold  of  its  dying  flames  stole  in  through 
the  windows,  lighting  up  the  room,  as  Franz, 
standing  at  Margaret's  side,  gave  her  his  name 
and  the  protection  of  his  love. 

Mrs.  Perkins  and  Franz's  mother  wept  profusely, 
and  Perkins  disgraced  himself  in  his  own  estima- 


388        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

tion  by  sobbing  aloud  in  stifled  tones  he  vainly 
sought  to  suppress  on  peril  of  choking.  He  finally 
retreated  to  the  hall,  where  he  encountered  Rus 
sell  with  a  limp  handkerchief — "making  an  ass 
of  herself,  too." 

A  little  later  Philip  drew  the  curtains  in  front  of 
the  windows  to  exclude  the  darkening  sky  and 
Perkins  said,  "When  you  get  screwed  up  to 
it  a  wedding  is  really  more  festive  than  a  funeral, 
though  they  seem  to  have  much  in  common. 
Now  I  am  in  a  measure  familiar  with  the  ordeal, 
I  venture  to  predict  this  has  been  the  most  bliss 
ful  day  I  shall  ever  know — when  one  of  my  dear 
est  friends  is  married  to  another  of  my  dearest 
friends." 

Here  he  had  difficulty  with  his  words. 

"Doubtless  you  all  think  me  a  driveling  idiot, 
but  I  feel  like  I  don't  knowr  what — and  I  can't 
really  help  it." 

Everybody  laughed  at  this  and  Philip  shook 
hands  with  him,  saying  he  was  the  finest  fellow 
in  the  world,  while  Margaret  bestowed  upon  him 
a  generous  share  of  her  bouquet.  The  gift  bore 
with  it  a  grateful  little  speech  that  caused  him  to 
weep  afresh. 

It  was  very  late,  indeed,  when  they  separated. 

"I  assure  yon,"  Perkins  informed  Philip  when 
they  had  reached  the  Perkins  home,  "I  assure 
you,  it  has  been  the  most  satisfactory  event  in 
my  life,  and  it's  a  source  of  stupendous  joy  for 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN   HATH  389 

me  to  reflect  that  my  dear  cousin  Geoff  is  des 
tined  to  undergo  a  severe  mental  shock  in  con 
sequence.  I  think  I  am  entitled  to  all  the  com 
fort  I  can  get." 

Philip  smiled  appreciatively. 

"What  a  funny  little  fellow  you  are !  Such  a 
good  chap,  too,"  he  added. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  she  has  Franz  to  look  after 
her,  and  he  will  have  the  means  to  go  on  with 
his  studies,"  continued  Perkins. 

"He  is  fortunate,"  Philip  replied.  "We  so  sel 
dom  get  what  we  want — generally  it's  what  we 
don't  want  that  comes  to  us." 

Perkins  looked  at  him  curiously,  his  head  well 
to  one  side  and  his  chubby  hands  buried  in  the 
depths  of  his  trousers  pockets. 

"I    say — what's    up?     Aren't   you   happy?" 

"I  am  blue,  and  not  so  decent  as  I  should  be. 
I  am  always  and  everlastingly  thinking  of  myself. 
I  am  wretched — but  you  know  what's  wrong  with 
me,  so  don't  discuss  it.  I  can't  stand  it." 

"As  you  prefer,  Philip.  Still,  don't  you  believe 
it  will  be  all  right  in  the  end?" 

"It's  not  the  future  that  troubles  me.  It's 
what  may  occur  while  I  am  flat  on  my  back.  I 
am  fairly  desperate!" 

Perkins  gazed  at  him  sorrowfully.  Philip 
added: 

"I  can't  seem  very  generous  to  you  when  I  flop 
into  the  dumps  on  no  greater  provocation  than 


390         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

seeing  those  who  are  contented  and  at  peace. 
My  nature  is  not  sweetened  by  adversity,  it's  be 
ing  pickled  in  it."  He  struck  the  floor  savagely 
with  the  heel  of  his  shoe.  "I  feel  like  running  off 
from  everything,  and  if  I  could  include  my  miser 
able  self  among  what  I  left  behind,  I'd  not  re 
main  undecided/' 

"I  hope  you  won't  go  any  place,  Philip !"  Per 
kins  said  in  alarm.  "What  the  dickens  will  be 
come  of  me?  It  will  be  absolutely  forsaken 
when  Franz  and  Margaret  go." 

"You  will  see  all  you  want  of  me.  I  shall  un 
questionably  stay  for  a  time  at  least." 

"Why — have  you  been  actually  thinking  of 
leaving?" 

Philip  smiled  grimly. 

"Don't  distress  yourself;  you  can  safely  depend 
on  having  all  you  desire  of  my  cheerful  company. 
And  now  if  you'll  help  me  into  my  overcoat,  I'll 
start  home." 

No  sooner  was  Philip  gone  than  Perkins  took 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  where  he  had  secreted 
them,  the  lilies-of-the-valley  Margaret  had  given  him. 
As  he  gazed  at  them  a  telltale  moisture  mounted 
to  his  eyes.  He  could  only  shake  his  head  mourn 
fully  and  deposit  them  again — not  next  his  heart 
— but  near  an  equally  important  organ  and  one 
he  knew  more  of,  even  though  he  was  in  doubt  as  to 
its  exact  location. 

Poor  Perkins!     He  was  learning  that  a  clisin- 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  391 

terested  love  has  its  griefs.     It's  not  unmitigated 
bliss  to  witness  another's  rapture. 


XII 


Time  jogged  forward.  The  year  grew  to  its 
fullest  age  and  died — the  old  giving  birth  to  the 
new,  and  as  the  days  went  on  Philip  worked  at 
his  task,  worked  and  struggled  with  what  courage 
he  could  find. 

He  had  at  first  seen  Barbara  quite  often,  but 
the  frequency  of  their  meetings  gradually  lessened. 
This,  he  knew,  was  the  result  of  her  father's 
interference. 

Had  his  ears  been  open  to  the  current  gossip 
of  the  town,  he  might  have  been  shocked  by  a 
rumor  that  even  his  mother  forbore  to  tell  him. 
He  toiled  away  through  the  days,  running  his 
race  with  chance  and  fate,  and  when  hope  was 
once  more  beginning  to  burn  within  him,  the  blow 
fell.  Spread  out  on  the  table  before  him  was  her 
letter.  For  the  hundredth  time  he  read  it. 

"You  will  hate  me,  but  I  told  you  how  it  would 
be.  My  father  is  determined  that  I  marry  Mr. 
Shelden.  He  is  determined,  and  I  have  decided 
to  do  as  he  wishes.  You  will  despise  me,  but 
I  have  tried  to  be  hopeful  and  true  to  you — 
I  have  tried  so  hard,  so  very  hard,  Philip.  I 
can  only  see  that  the  future  is  doubtful  and  un 
certain.  Perhaps  it  is  best  as  it  is.  If  you  achieve 


392         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

the  success  you  deserve,  I  am  unworthy  to  enjoy 
it  with  you.  If  you  fail — you  know  I  am  not 
suited  to  poverty.  1  believe  in  your  goodness,  in 
your  generosity,  most  firmly,  as  I  have  from  the 
start,  and  1  feel  it  will  comfort  you,  when  I  say 
that  the  thought  of  marrying  Mr.  Shelden  does 
not  distress  me  in  the  least.  I  am  not  altogether 
unhappy  that  I  am  so  soon  to  be  his  wife." 

Again  and  again  Philip  read  it,  until  the  words 
were  jumbled  together  in  meaningless  confusion. 

"No,  she  is  not  entirely  unhappy — I  can  see 
that,"  he  thought.  "What  will  she  gain?  A  house 
on  the  best  street;  a  man  twice  her  age,  and  her 
father's  blessing.  Bah!  It  isn't  much,  though 
it  counts  for  more  than  I." 

He  turned  and  gazed  out  of  the  window.  How 
many  times  he  had  done  so  when  his  day's  work 
was  finished  and  he  was  happy,  tired,  satisfied.  He 
was  looking  on  a  different  world — a  world  he  had 
never  viewed  before.  The  coldness  was  only  cold. 
There  was  no  contrasting  thought  of  warmth  and 
cheer.  It  was  bleak  and  lonely — only  that! 

He  raised  the  letter  to  his  lips  suddenly  and 
kissed  it. 

"I  loved  her!"  he  thought.  "I  still  love  her— 
and  I  hope  she  is  happy."  He  drew  forward  a 
sheet  of  note-paper,  took  up  his  pen,  and  dipping 
it  in  the  ink,  began  to  write  an  answer  to  her 
letter — his  farewell  to  her  and  love,  and  the  hope 
born  and  created  of  love. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  393 

When  the  letter  was  written,  he  put  her  letter 
— the  last  he  should  ever  receive — with  others  of 
hers  that  he  had  kept. 

"When  she  is  his  wife,  I  shall  burn  them/'  he 
muttered.  "Till  then,  I  shall  keep  them  here.  It 
can  do  no  harm." 

He  marveled  how  he  got  through  the  days  that 
followed.  They  came  and  found  him,  unable  to 
wrrite,  wretched,  but  so  composed  his  mother 
imagined  his  grief  less  than  it  was.  But  he  was 
madly  restless.  There  was  no  peace  for  him  save 
in  movement.  Night  after  night  he  tramped  the 
streets.  Day  after  day,  with  a  gun  on  his  shoul 
der,  he  roamed  the  woods,  about  the  town  and 
by  the  river.  The  gun  served  for  an  excuse.  It 
was  never  fired.  In  fact  it  was  never  even  loaded. 

He  could  not  work — and  work  was  usually  his 
refuge  in  periods  of  distress.  Now  it  was 
changed.  He  could  only  await  the  day  she  would 
marry  Shelden. 

"When  it  is  over  with  it  will  be  the  same  as  if 
I  had  not  loved  her/*  he  assured  himself. 

One  afternoon  as  he  was  going  toward  his 
home,  he  came  on  Geoffrey  Ballard  face  to  face. 
Not  the  splendid  creature  to  whom  he  had  been 
accustomed,  but  Geoff,  the  seedy  and  disreput 
able. 

Geoff  had  just  arrived.  He  had  been  wandering 
through  back  streets  and  alleyways  for  an  hour 
or  more,  waiting  until  the  darkness  of  evening 


394        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

should  settle  down  that  he  might  slink  unob 
served  into  his  sister's  presence  and  demand 
money  sufficient  to  make  himself  presentable. 

There  was  a  moment  of  defiant  silence  on  the 
part  of  the  prodigal  met  by  a  contemptuous  in 
difference  from  Philip.  Then  Geoff  spoke: 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Southard." 

"Are  you?     Well,  you  don't  look  it." 

Geoff  would  have  passed,  but  Philip  detained 
him. 

"Hold  on!  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 
Geoff  came  to  a  stand.  "Have  you  heard  from 
your  sister  during  your  absence?  If  you  haven't 
there  is  a  surprise  in  store  for  you.  She  has 
been  dangerously  ill  and  she  is  married  to  Becker. 
That  was  two  or  three  weeks  ago.  They  are 
preparing  to  go  South,  as  soon  as  she  is  able  to 
take  the  journey.  Hold  on!" — but  Geoff  moved 
rapidly  away. 

His  sister  married — and  to  the  German!  It 
put  all  other  considerations  out  of  his  mind. 

Perhaps  Philip  had  lied.  This  was  the  meager 
hope  with  which  he  endeavored  to  sustain  him 
self.  He  entered  the  house,  and  brushing  past 
Russell,  whom  he  encountered  on  the  stairs,  ran 
tip  to  his  sister's  room.  She  was  in  bed  and 
alone. 

"Geoff!"  she  cried  in  alarm. 

His  face  was  purple  with  rage;  he  could  not 
control  his  voice  as  he  poured  forth  a  volley  of 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  395 

incoherent  abuse,  from  which  she  shrank,  fright 
ened  and  shuddering. 

"Is  it  so?  Are  you  married?"  He  was  a  trifle 
calmer  when  he  asked  the  question. 

"Yes,  Geoff." 

She  answered  steadily,  but  her  cheeks  were 
colorless.  She  feared  him  more  than  she  even  ad 
mitted  to  herself.  Still  it  was  well  to  have  it  over 
with.  Franz  was  not  by.  ...  If  he  would  only 
stay  away  until  Geoff  was  through  was  her  prayer. 

"This  is  the  advantage  you  took  of  my  ab 
sence  !" 

"Oh,  hush,  Geoff,—"  she  implored.  "He  will 
hear  you !  It  will  be  the  same  as  it  has  always 
been — you  have  the  claim  on  me  you  have  always 
had — there  is  no  change.  I've  only  got  a  little 
happiness, — surely  you  don't  begrudge  me  that!" 
Perhaps  she  appreciated  the  weakness  of  her  plea, 
for  she  continued  with  dignity.  "You  forget  your 
self, — and  what  is  due  me " 

As  she  spoke,  Franz  entered.  He  had  caught 
the  sound  of  Geoff's  high-pitched  voice  in  the 
room  below. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  your  sister  is 
ill,"  he  said  coldly.  For  Margaret's  sake  he  was 
prepared  to  endure  much.  "If  you  have  any  re 
proaches  to  make  you  must  choose  another  occa 
sion.  She  is  not  in  condition  to  listen  to  you  at 
present." 

The   German's   quiet   demeanor   sobered    Geoff 


396        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

on  the  instant.  "I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you," 
he  answered  sullenly.  "You  have  only  done  what 
any  man  would  in  your  position,  I  suppose.  It 
was  an  opportunity  and  you  made  the  most  of 
it.  I  am  not  blaming  you,  but" — turning  hotly 
to  the  bed  where  Margaret  lay — "I  blame  her 
for  having  no  better  sense  than  to  do  a  thing  like 
this  without  consulting  me.  It  was  my  right, 
as  her  brother,  to  know!" 

"But  you  were  not  here,"  Margaret  interposed. 
She  was  anxious  to  draw  all  the  trouble  that  was 
brewing  upon  herself.  Geoff's  mood  boded  harm. 

He  paid  no  heed  to  her.  He  twirled  a  cane  of 
flexible  rattan  he  carried  between  thumb  and  fore 
finger,  and  glared  at  Becker.  Stupidity,  anger 
and  partial  drunkenness  were  in  the  glance. 

"I  say  to  you,"  Franz  began  evenly  and  quietly, 
"I  say  to  you  that  your  sister  is  sick,  and  I  insist 
upon  your  leaving  the  room." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you,  Becker,  though 
you  did  sneak  into  my  place.  For  a  fellow  such 
as  you  it  was  a  chance  not  apt  to  come  again." 

Franz  flushed  scarlet,  but  he  managed  to  speak 
without  perceptible  emotion.  "Whatever  you 
may  wish  to  tell  your  sister  must  be  deferred. 
This  is  not  the  time." 

He  deliberately  pushed  Geoff  from  the  room, 
closing  the  door  after  them. 

In  the  hall  they  confronted  each  other.  Franz 
was  sternly  self-possessed.  He  would  exercise  all 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  397 

the  tolerance  at  his  command,  at  no  matter  what 
cost  to  his  pride. 

Within  the  room  they  had  just  quitted,  Mar 
garet  lay  breathless  and  listening,  but  when  there 
penetrated  to  her  ears  the  echo  of  Geoff's  in 
sulting  speech,  she  arose  with  a  dizzy  aching 
head  and  with  trembling  fingers  began  to  dress. 

The  two  men  were  standing  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  Geoff  was  saying  sneeringly:  "For  a 
fellow  of  your  stamp  you  have  done  well.  I  can 
congratulate  you  even  if  I  can't  my  sister." 

Franz  was  silent.  He  simply  looked  from  un 
derneath  straight  brows  at  his  tormentor,  biting 
his  lips. 

"You  have  done  a  fine  thing  for  yourself. 
My  sister's  money  will  find  more  uses  than  ever. 
Of  course,  it  was  the  main  attraction." 

Still  Franz  was  silent. 

"Why  don't  you  deny  the  truth  of  what  I  say?" 
Geoff  insisted.  "Why  don't  you  tell  me  I  lie, 
you  fool?" 

"If  you  speak  to  me  like  that  again,  I'll  not  be 
responsible  for  what  I  do,"  said  Franz  evenly. 

"I  congratulate  you — you  have  done  a  fine 
thing  for  yourself.  It  means  ease  and  plenty." 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  mockingly. 

Franz  struck  the  extended  hand  roughly  with 
his  fist.  "What  you  insinuate  is  a  lie!  You  are 
a  coward  to  get  behind  the  advantage  you  have 
of  me — a  coward!" 


398        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Geoff  dropped  back  a  step.  With  his  cane  he  hit 
Franz  lightly  at  first,  and  then  made  as  if  to  re 
peat  the  blow. 

Forgetting  everything  but  his  hate  for  the  man 
before  him,  Franz  put  out  his  hand  to  take  Geoff 
by  the  throat.  It  was  then  the  cane  descended, 
striking  him  across  the  temples.  Instantly  foot 
and  hand  alike  were  stayed.  He  reeled  as  though 
he  would  fall, — putting  up  both  hands  to  his  eyes. 

Geoff  saw  the  door  of  his  sister's  room  swing 
open,  and  turning  with  an  oath  from  Franz,  who 
stood  swaying  unsteadily,  he  ran  down  the  stairs. 

In  the  hall  Franz  lurched  from  side  to  side,  his 
hands  to  his  face.  "Franz,"  Margaret  called, 
"Franz,  dear!  what  did  he  do?" 

With  staggering  uncertain  steps  he  started 
toward  her. 

"Franz!"  she  called.     "Dear  Franz!  what  is  it?" 

He  gave  no  answer.  He  only  groped  his  way 
nearer,  and  she  saw  the  cruel  red  welts  just  above 
his  eyes.  He  had  come  almost  to  her,  when  he 
sank  to  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

"Franz,  dear!"  she  cried,  "what  is  it?  Are  you 
hurt,  my  love?  Are  you  hurt?" 

She  put  her  cool  palm  against  his  forehead, 
and  kneeling  beside  him  slipped  an  arm  around 
his  neck.  She  felt  him  tremble  as  though  every 
nerve  and  muscle  in  his  body  were  wrenched  and 
torn. 

As  she  clung  to  him  a  chill  stole  into  her  own 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN   HATH  399 

heart.  She,  too,  could  only  crouch  and  cower 
and  shudder. 

Finally  he  spoke  in  strange  hushed  accents. 
"Margaret,  I  can't  see!  It  is  all  black — black  as 
night  in  front  of  me !" 

She  pressed  close  in  his  arms,  and  with  her 
little  hand  she  chafed  his  brow  where  the  red  line 
burned  and  stung. 

He  stood  erect  once  more  and  slowly  turned 
about  as  if  in  quest  of  something. 

"Margaret,  how  does  the  light  come?  Is  it 
there?"  He  faced  the  wall — the  window  at  his 
back. 

She  had  moved  with  him,  her  glance  fastened 
upon  his  eyes. 

They  were  fixed  in  a  stony  glare. 

"Where  is  the  window?"  he  asked  appealingly. 

She  was  sobbing  now. 

"Margaret,   I  can't  see — I  am  blind — blind!" 

He  felt  her  fall  lax  in  his  embrace.  The  sobs 
ceased  abruptly. 

She  was   unconscious. 


XIII 

Franz  knew  that  Margaret  must  die. 
She   weakened   visibly  with   the   moments   that 
had   the    single   mission — to   kill. 

He  knew  but  too  well  what  passed  before  him 


400        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

in  his  darkened  world.  He  knew  that  since  his 
blindness,  she  had  sunk  through  stupor  to  stupor, 
each  to  drag  her  farther  and  farther  from  him. 

There  were  intervals — seconds  that  might  have 
been  ages,  when  she  would  sit  erect  and  call 
his  name,  but  there  were  no  conscious  periods. 

She  was  sinking  by  slow  degrees,  and  the  blind 
man  held  a  dark  vigil. 

In  the  still  room  the  other  watchers  came  and 
went  noiselessly,  with  the  question  continually 
on  their  lips:  "Is  she  better?" 

During  those  long  days,  when  it  was  neither 
life  nor  death,  Philip  came  frequently  to  make 
his  inquiries,  to  be  confronted  by  the  vision  of 
Mrs.  Perkins'  tear-stained  countenance  or,  what 
was  worse — to  encounter  Perkins. 

He  would  wander  in  their  company  aimlessly 
from  room  to  room,  or  with  them  listen  at  her 
door,  seeing  in  his  fancy  Franz  sitting,  a  blind 
sentinel,  counting  the  minutes  that  stole  up  out 
of  the  lap  of  time  to  bear  her  away. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day.  The 
doctor  had  just  left  the  sick  chamber  to  be  met 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  by  the  three  anxious 
friends. 

"What  are  the  chances?"  Philip  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  Then  addressing  Philip: 
"It  may  be  well  for  you  to  stay  here  to-night. 
She  is  failing  rapidly." 

Philip  looked  at  him  stupidly. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  401 

Perkins  seized  the  doctor  by  the  shoulder  al 
most  savagely:  "Why  don't  you  save  her?"  he 
demanded.  "Why  don't  you?" 

"I  am  doing  all  I  can.  The  cure  should  have 
commenced  weeks  ago.  I  said  then  what  should 
be  done." 

He  pushed  past  them,  glad  of  the  opportunity 
to  escape  that  their  momentary  panic  afforded;  but 
Philip  followed  him  from  the  house,  and  as  the 
doctor  turned — a  lighted  match  between  his  fin 
gers,  for  he  was  arranging  to  make  his  walk 
home  comfortable  with  a  cigar,  Philip  said,  "Do 
you  mean  she  will  die?  Is  there  no  hope?" 

"None   whatever." 

"How  soon  will  it  be?"  Philip  questioned  with 
a  stolid  curiosity  which  was  a  source  of  aston 
ishment  to  himself. 

"In  an  hour  or  so,  I  think." 

Philip  twice  essayed  to  speak  and  failed.  The 
doctor  puffed  reflectively  at  his  cigar.  He  added: 

"She  was  never  strong,  and  the  shock  of  Beck 
er's  blindness  will  prove  too  much  for  her.  She 
was  in  no  condition  to  meet  it." 

Philip  mopped  his  brow.  It  was  damp  and 
clammy.  Of  a  sudden  he  dripped  at  every  pore. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  drop  in  later.  I  would  remain  if  it  wasn't 
for  an  old  party  up  on  the  edge  of  town  who 
can't  last.  His  folks  have  sent  for  me  a  dozen 
times  to-day.  He  insists  he  won't  die  unless 


402         THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

I  come  to  help  him  off,  and  I  guess  the  fam 
ily's  afraid  he  will  stick  to  his  word."  And  the 
man  of  pills  laughed  softly  at  his  modest  lit 
tle  joke.  "I  am  of  no  use  here.  All  has  been 
done  that  can  be — only  keep  an  eye  on  Becker. 
He  doesn't  take  it  right.  He  is  too  undemon 
strative.  Good  night." 

And  he  strode  up  the  street,  leaving  an  odor 
of  tobacco  smoke  in  his  wake. 

Philip  went  into  the  house,  shutting  the  door 
quietly  behind  him.  It  was  all  like  a  hideous 
nightmare,  and  he  felt  himself  as  unreal  as  all  the 
rest.  He  found  Perkins  seated  on  the  lowest 
step  of  the  stairs.  His  face  was  buried  in  his 
hands. 

"What  else  did  he  say?"  Perkins  asked,  shift 
ing  his  position,  and  looking  up. 

"It  was  merely  a  repetition  of  his  former  state 
ment." 

"I  wish  it  were  I!"  Perkins  blurted  out.  "I 
wish  it  were!  Why  can't  we  do  something  for 
her — for  him!  You  love  her,  too,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  love  her;  maybe  not  with  your  unselfish 
devotion,  but  I  have  your  desire  to  be  of  service." 

Perkins  shook  his  head.  "It's  all  up,"  he  sob 
bed.  "Think  of  it — Margaret  dying!" 

Philip  regarded  his  friend  pityingly,  and  took 
to  pacing  back  and  forth  in  front  of  him. 

Imperceptibly  he  moderated  his  step  until  he 
no  more  than  tiptoed  up  and  down  the  hall. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  403 

Perkins,  worn  and  wretched  with  four  nights  of 
sleeplessness,  slumbered  against  the  newel  post, 
his  hands  idly  folded  in  his  lap,  his  hair  roughened 
and  disordered,  his  dress  creased  and  crumpled, 
his  whole  attitude  one  of  utter  dejection. 

The  solitary  gas-jet  in  the  center  of  the  hall 
burned  feebly. 

The  light,  stealing  through  the  colored  globe, 
imparted  to  Perkins*  features  a  semblance  of 
shrunken  ghastliness.  More  than  once  Philip  had 
a  compelling  impulse  to  turn  it  up,  and  had  step 
ped  to  the  chandelier  to  do  so  only  to  be  resisted 
by  an  invisible  force  that  possessed  him,  a  chilling 
apathy  that  revolted  at  any  change. 

The  least  noise  had  a  powerful  fascination  for 
him.  The  ticking  of  a  clock — and  numberless 
clocks  appeared  to  be  ticking  with  jarring  clangor, 
some  close  by,  some  far  off  in  the  distance — or 
the  footfall  of  an  occasional  belated  wayfarer  on 
the  street  without,  would  cause  him  to  pause  and 
listen  breathlessly  with  a  vague  unexplainable 
fear.  His  sensations  were  so  distressing  that  for 
the  sake  of  personal  contact  he  wedged  in  at  Per 
kins'  elbow  on  the  steps.  In  spite  of  his  care  he 
aroused  his  companion,  who  stirred  fretfully  to 
ask  sleepily:  "What  is  it?  Do  they  want  me?" 

"I  wished  to  sit  down.  I  didn't  intend  to  dis 
turb  you." 

"Oh!  that's  all  right."  And  almost  immediate 
ly  Perkins  was  dozing  as  before. 


404        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

In  the  room  above,  the  watcher  and  watched 
kept  their  place. 

Franz  clasped  her  hands  fast  in  both  of  his,  as 
though  through  sheer  physical  strength  he  would 
keep  her  with  him.  As  yet  she  had  indicated  by 
no  sign  that  she  understood  what  was  going  on 
about  her.  It  was  always  the  same  tired  tossing, 
but  with  greater  weakness  there  slowly  succeeded 
greater  calm. 

With  a  fixed  rapt  look  Franz's  gaze  sought 
her  face  and  never  wavered;  it  preserved  its  di 
rection  as  steadily  from  beneath  his  broad  straight 
brows  as  though  he  really  saw. 

She  turned  restlessly  for  the  thousandth  time, 
and  as  he  had  a  thousand  times  already,  he  whis 
pered  softly,  "Margaret." 

Hitherto  his  words  had  fallen  on  deaf  ears,  now 
the  head  moved  upon  the  pillow — the  sweet  wan 
face  was  raised  to  his. 

"Margaret/'  he  said,  "Margaret,  do  you  hear 
me?  My  little  wife!  My  little  wife!"  As  he 
spoke  her  eyes  opened. 

The  room  was  unlighted  save  for  the  night- 
lamp  burning  on  the  table,  and  peering  at  her  in 
the  gloom  with  those  sunken  sightless  eyes  of  his, 
was  her  husband. 

She  remembered  all.  "Franz!  Franz!"  she 
cried,  in  a  voice  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  be  audible. 
"It  was  not  a  dream?  I  meant  you  should  have  so 
much, — say  you  forgive  me !" 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  405 

"You  must  not  grieve,  dear,"  he  said  tenderly. 
"You  must  not  think  of  me  now." 

"It  was  all  so  beautiful  until  he  came,"  she 
said  dreamily;  "I  have  been  so  happy  with  you, 
dear,  so  happy." 

There  was  infinite  regret  and  infinite  tenderness 
in  her  all  but  inarticulate  speech. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while,  then  Margaret 
said:  "It  is  good-by  we  are  saying,  Franz.  Who 
would  imagine  there  would  be  so  little  to  say?" 

Franz  bent  over  her,  desolation  in  his  soul. 

"What  was  that?"  she  asked,  her  voice  fainter 
than  before. 

"I  thought  it  very  quiet,  dear,"  he  answered. 
"Perhaps  it  is  the  wind." 

"How  many  days  ago  was  it?"  she  questioned. 

"You  mean  when  you  were  taken  ill,  dear?  It 
was  four  days  ago." 

"So  many  days  ago  as  that?  Where  are  the 
others?" 

"They  are  here.  My  mother,  Mrs.  Perkins, 
Ballard  and  Philip.  Would  you  like  to  see  them, 
dear?" 

"Only  you,  Franz.     Take  my  love  to  them." 

Her  voice  had  become  the  gentlest  of  murmurs, 
but  the  small  white  hand  continued  to  stroke  his 
face,  though  with  a  faltering  movement.  Then 
the  soft  caress  stopped;  a  sigh  escaped  her;  she 
appeared  to  slip  from  his  grasp — to  shrink  within 
his  arms. 


406        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Margaret!"  he  said.  "Margaret!"  and  his  lips 
were  ashen  and  tremulous. 

He  allowed  her  to  fall  limply  to  the  pillow. 

He  waited  a  moment,  then  springing  to  his  feet 
he  started  for  the  door.  And  as  he  groped  his 
way,  there  burst  from  his  quivering  lips  a  great 
cry.  "Margaret!  Margaret!" 


XIV 

It  was  the  second  evening  after  Margaret's 
death,  and  the  night  of  Barbara's  marriage  to 
Shelden. 

To  Philip  the  day  had  come,  as  all  days  must, 
where  one  exists  for  them  alone,  with  no  other 
interest  in  their  passing  than  that  they  go  swiftly. 
What  was  in  store  for  him  he  wondered.  Even 
supposing  he  eventually  succeeded,  it  would  be 
the  bitter  satire  of  success.  What  could  fame  or 
money  give  him! — he  was  robbed  of  every  in 
spiration.  At  least  he  could  turn  to  his  work  for 
forgetfulness.  That  was  something,  even  if  it 
yielded  him  no  further  recompense.  He  looked 
at  his  watch.  "It  must  soon  be  over  with.  They 
must  soon  be  married,"  he  thought,  and  slipping 
into  his  hat  and  coat  started  down-stairs.  His 
mother  heard  him  and  came  into  the  hall. 

"Are  you  going  out,  Philip?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear.  I  want  to  see  Franz.  I  haven't 
been  there  to-day.  I'll  not  be  out  late." 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  407 

"It's  very  cold." 

"I  shall  not  care/' 

She  put  up  her  lips  to  kiss  him,  then  pressed 
her  cheek  to  his.  "I'm  so  sorry,  Philip!"  she 
whispered.  It  was  the  only  expression  of  pity 
she  had  ventured. 

"Don't,  mother.  I  can't  endure  it.  Not  now — 
not  yet." 

With  a  hasty  good-by  he  hurried  off. 

Ten  minutes  later  and  he  stood  with  Perkins 
before  the  door  leading  into  the  room  where 
Margaret  lay. 

"Where  is  Franz?"  Philip  asked. 

Perkins  nodded  toward  the  door.  "We  can't 
induce  him  to  leave  her,"  he  said. 

"Why  should  you  seek  to?     Poor  fellow!" 

They  were  silent,  gazing  at  each  other,  a  depth 
of  sorrow  in  their  glance.  Finally  Perkins  said, 
with  a  show  of  control: 

"Have  you  seen  her,  Philip?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"I  had  decided  to  keep  the  memory  I  have  of 
her  unchanged.  It  is  as  I  saw  her  when  they 
were  married.  She  was  so  happy,  poor  little 
thing!" 

"There  is  more  than  happiness  in  her  face  now," 
Perkins  observed  thoughtfully.  "Do  you  believe 
in  a  hereafter?" 

"What  odds  can  it  be?  It's  in  the  present  our 
lot  is  cast." 


408        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

"Don't  you  like  to  think  you  are  destined  to 
meet  those  you  love  again?" 

Philip  placed  his  hand  irresolutely  upon  the 
knob. 

"I  shall  go  in.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  de 
termine  what  I  do  believe." 

As  he  entered  the  room,  a  rush  of  cold  air  met 
him,  for  the  windows  were  partially  raised — » 
the  outer  shutters  only  being  closed.  The  dim 
light  filled  the  apartment  with  shadowy  indis 
tinctness. 

Slowly  and  overpoweringly  objects  became 
plain  in  the  somberness  of  his  surroundings. 

Margaret  lay  upon  a  couch  in  the  center  of  the 
room.  She  might  have  been  asleep. 

At  her  side  sat  Franz,  regardless  of  the  sting 
ing  gusts  of  wind  that  came  in  between  the  shut 
ters. 

Philip  stepped  to  the  couch  and  looked  down 
upon  the  beautiful  face,  then  he  moved  back 
quietly,  and  would  have  quitted  the  room,  but 
Franz  detained  him  by  saying:  "Is  it  you,  Per 
kins?" 

"It  is  I,"  Philip  answered. 

Franz  arose  instantly,  putting  out  his  hand,  and 
Philip  clasped  it  eagerly. 

Without  the  wind  sighed  drearily.  The  sound  was 
depressing. 

The  naked  branches  of  a  tree  growing  in  a 
corner  of  the  yard  lashed  the  house  incessantly. 
The  single  lamp  burned  with  a  flickering  flame. 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  409 

"What  is  it?"  Franz  questioned,  for  twice  Philip 
had  essayed  to  speak. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Franz.  So  sorry,"  he  cried  in 
broken  tones. 

"I    know    you    are,"    Franz    answered    simply. 

"There  is  this  that  I  want  to  tell  you,  Franz, 
if  I  may,"  Philip  continued. 

"Yes?" 

"Barbara  is  to  be  married  to-night."  He  came 
to  an  abrupt  stop.  "I  have  determined  to  go  East," 
he  went  on  presently.  "It  will  mean  greater  oppor 
tunity.  A  garbled  version  of  that  affair  of  Anson's 
has  got  abroad  and  my  mother  is  equally  anxious  to 
break  up  here.  What  I  wished  to  ask  you  is,  won't 
you  join  me,  dear  old  fellow?" 

"And  allow  my  blindness  to  be  your  affliction?" 

"You  are  more  to  me  than  I  can  express.  First 
my  mother — then  you,  and  after  you — Perkins." 

Franz  swept  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

"Wait!  How  can  I  think  of  the  future?  My 
very  world  is  ended!  Wait." 

Philip  stole  out  of  the  room  and  from  the  house. 
It  was  snowing  heavily.  The  ground  was  already 
covered.  It  had  been  bare  at  supper-time.  He  kept 
on  up  the  street  until  he  was  opposite  the  Gerards. 

The  house  was  brilliantly  lighted,  but  the  wed 
ding  party  was  still  absent  at  the  church.  He 
must  see  her  once  more! 

So  he  waited  in  the  cold,  half  hidden  by  the 
falling  snow  that  clung  to  him  and  that  drifted 
about  the  quiet  and  empty  streets. 


410        THE  HAND  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

Yes,  Franz  should  live  with  him  and  his  mother. 
Comfort  was  possible  with  favoring  circumstances 
where  happiness  was  not. 

Presently,  disturbing  his  reverie,  the  dull  rum 
ble  of  wheels  was  audible,  muffled  and  deadened 
by  the  fall  of  snow. 

The  carriages  rolled  into  view. 

He  saw  the  many  figures  moving  about,  as  the 
guests  streamed  into  the  house,  and  straining  his 
eyes  he  saw  Barbara.  She  stood  in  the  open 
door,  and  as  she  turned  to  answer  some  one  who 
had  spoken  on  the  walk — her  voice  reached  him, 
gay  and  bright. 

The  guests  had  disappeared,  yet  he  waited. 
He  would  wait  until  she  entered  her  carriage  to 
be  driven  to  the  station.  It  could  not  be  very 
long,  and  then  he,  too,  would  forget. 

Suddenly  the  doors  swung  back.  He  saw  her, 
attended  by  her  friends,  clinging  to  her  husband's 
arm,  and  then — she  was  whirled  away  and  it  was 
over. 

Turning  he  went  directly  home  and  to  his  room, 
and  took  from  the  drawer  the  bundle  of  letters. 
One  by  one  he  burned  them — and  as  the  last  let 
ter  left  his  hand,  far  off  in  the  distance  pealed  the 
shrill  shriek  of  the  whistle  that  announced  the 
approach  of  the  train. 

The  sound  drew  him  to  the  window.  He 
opened  it  and  leaned  upon  the  ledge. 

He    heard    the    shrill    whistle    once    again,    the 


ALL  THAT  A  MAN  HATH  411 

creaking  of  the  wheels  upon  the  frosted  rails,  the 
ringing  of  a  bell — and  she  was  gone !  gone ! 

A  desperate  sense  of  wrong  and  injury — of  pain 
and  grief  swept  over  him. 

He  turned  from  the  white  night  and  threw  him 
self  upon  the  bed, — abject,  lonely,  miserable!  If 
he  could  only  die — if  he  only  could!  but  it  was 
the  sickness  not  of  death,  but  of  life,  that  was  on 
him. 

For  a  time  he  was  unable  to  think  or  to  throw 
off  the  stupor  possessing  him. 

His  mother  came  into  the  room,  but  he  did  not 
look  up. 

She  closed  the  window,  saying:  "Philip,  if  you 
intend  to  lie  there,  you  must  be  wrapped  up,  or 
you  will  take  cold." 

He  did  not  speak,  and  she  added:  "It's  late. 
It's  almost  midnight.  Won't  you  go  to  bed?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"My  poor  boy!  my  poor  boy! — I  am  so  sorry!" 

"The  worst  is  over  with,"  he  said. 

"Can't  I  help  you?  It  hurts  me  to  see  you  so. 
I  wish " 

"Please  go.  You  can't  help  me — nothing  can. 
Please  go!"  His  voice  was  full  of  entreaty. 

"How  could  she  treat  you  so,  Philip!" 

"It  wasn't  her  fault.  It  was  mine.  I  didn't  trust 
myself.  I  didn't  trust  her.  I  was  a  coward!  She 
would  have  taken  any  risk  had  I  asked  it  of  her, 
but  I  was  afraid,  and  this  is  my  punishment." 


412        THE  HAND  OE  THE  MIGHTY 

"Won't  you  let  me  spread  a  blanket  over  you?" 

"No,  no.  I'll  get  up  in  a  few  moments."  He 
lifted  his  white  drawn  face  to  hers:  "Please  go, 
mother.  Please  go.  I — I — can't  talk  about  it." 

Reluctantly  his  mother  left  him  to  his  solitude. 

For  a  while  he  rested  motionless  on  the  bed, 
then  he  came  to  his  feet  and  went  to  the  table, 
taking  his  seat  beside  it,  his  elbows  propped  upon 
its  blotted  and  discolored  top.  He  pictured  his 
altered  life.  There  remained  to  him  one  solace 
if  he  willed  it.  He  could  cheat  time  by  work,  and 
so,  perhaps,  win  fame  to  fill  the  place  of  love,  and 
for  the  rest — the  world  could  go  hang! 

So  he  pictured  his  future,  a  future  vastly  less 
successful  than  the  reality  was  destined  to  be, 
and  when  he  had  built  his  new  ideal — buttressed 
it  with  hope  and  courage — he  picked  up  his  pen, 
cleared  it  of  the  black  rust  that  had  gathered  on 
its  point,  and  commenced  to  write — to  finish  the 
work  he  had  abandoned  when  the  blow  fell. 

All  through  the  night  and  into  the  dawn,  to 
and  fro  across  the  long  pages,  with  a  cheerful 
little  murmur  of  approval,  the  pen  scratched  and 
labored. 


THE  END 


